From  the  collection  of 
Julius  Doerner,  Chicago 
Purchased,  1918. 

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CIKCOUTION  BOOKSTACKS 


snnnciKi  / ^V^r&ing  this  mate 
the  libra%Trom  return  to  fflp^t 

on  or  before  the  Loba  ♦*  borrowed 
below.  You  Stamped 


Wow.  ?,u  mo'J't/S:*"  '?•* 

«"«<  underilnl-  -«  * 


ru  M IW5T  OOOlC. 

the  University.  result  in  dismissoi  from 

miwwMf*™""'"™-”"*” 


M 1 5 m( 


VIXEN 


^ ^axfzX 


BY 

mss  M.  R BRADDON 

Author  of  Lady  Audley’s  Secret,”  ETa 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY 

150  Worth  Street,  corner  Mission  Place 


TROWS 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMRANTi 
MEW  YORK. 


f u l^lu, 


h/[  ^ V 

V I X 33  isr. 


CHAPTER  1. 

A PRETTY  HORSE-BREAKER. 

The  moon  had  newly  risen,  a late  October  moon,  a pale  silvery 
crescen  , above  the  dark  pine  spires  in  the  thicket  through  which 
Kodenck  Vawdrey  came,  gun  in  hand,  after  a long  day’s  rabbit- 
shooting. It  was  imt  his  nearest  way  home,  but  he  liked  the 
broad  clearing  in  the  pine  wood,  which  had  a ghostly  look  at 
dusk,  and  was  so  still  and  lonely  that  the  dart  of  a souirrol 
through  the  fallen  leaves  was  a startling  event.  Here  and'  tliera 
a sturdy  ypung  oak  that  had  been  newly  stripped  of  its  tork  lav 

r^e  had  been  cutM  herfaSd^Verl 

across  the  track,  ready  for 
bailing.  The. ground  was  soft  and  spongy,  slippery  with  damn 
dead  leaves  and  niclined  in  a general  way  to  bogSs  buT  it 
was  ground  that  Roderick  Vawdrey  had  known  all  his  life  and 
njeemed  more  natural  to  him  than  any  other  spot  upon  mother 

thicket  there  was  a broad  ditch,  with  more 

Snl  fjf.i  T 1 o tieyond  the  ditch  the 

fence  that  inclosed  Squire  Tempest  s domain — an  old  manor- 

the  New  Forest.  It  had  been  an  abbey  be- 
House  ®till  best  known  as  the  Abbey 

‘‘I  wonder  whether  I’m  too  late  to  catch  her?”  speculated 
“ SbXno  eSTfui”  shoulder  to  the  other. 

At  the  end  of  the  clearing  there  was  a broad  five-barred  gate 
and  beside  the  gate  a keeper’s  cottage.  Tlie  flame  of  a nfwlv 

l?odp^^  candle  flashed  out  suddenly  upon  the  autumn  dusk,  while 
Kocierick  stood  looking  at  the  gate. 

“ Pi]  ask  at  the  lodge,”  he  said.  ‘‘  I should  like  to  sav  P-onrl- 
bye  to  the  little  thing  before  I go  back  to  Oxford  ” ' ^ ^ 

He  walked  quickly  on  to  the  gate.  The  keeper’s  children  were 
playmg  ac  nothing  particular  just  inside  it.  ^ere 

askefl^  ^ Tempest  gone  for  her  ride  this  afternoon?”  he 

» y®  eldest  shock-headed  youngster. 

And  not  come  back  yet  ?”  ^ 

^Noa.  If  she  doan’t  take  care  she’ll  be  bogged.” 

at  ^asfSiW  h”  and  stood 

^ t ^ It  was  late  for  the  little  lady  of  Temnest 

01  o be  out  on  her  pony,  but  then  it  was  an  understood 


/ 

O 


81 


VlXEN. 


thing  within  a radius  of  ten  miles  or  so  that  she  was  a self-willed 
young  person,  and  even  at  fifteen  years  of  age  she  had  a knack 
of  following  her  own  inclination  with  that  noble  disregard  of 
c‘onsequences  which  characterizes  the  heaven  born  ruler. 

Mr.  Vawdrey  had  not  waited  more  than  ten  minutes  when 
there  came  the  thud  of  hoofs  upon  the  soft  track,  a flash  of  gray 
in  the  distance,  something  flying  over  those  forky  brandies 
sprawling  across  the  way,  then  a half-sweet,  half-shrill  call,  like 
a bird’s,  at  which  the  keeper’s  children  scattered  themselves  like 
a brood  of  s<;ared  chickens,  and  now  a rush,  and  a gray  pony 
shooting  suddenly  into  the  air  and  coming  down  on  the  other 
side  of  the  gate,  as  if  he  were  a new  kind  of  sky-rocket. 

“What  do  you  think  of  that,  Rorie  ?’ cried  the  shrill,  sweet 
voice  of  the  gray  pony’s  rider — “ a clean  jump,  eh  ?” 

“I’m  ashamed  of  you,  Vixen,”  said  Roderick.  “ You’ll  come 
to  a bad  end  some  of  these  days.” 

^ I don’t  care  if  I do,  as  long  as  I get  my  fling  first,”  replied 
Vixen,  tossing  her  tawny  mane. 

She  was  a slim  little  thing,  in  a short  Lincoln-green  habit, 
She  had  a small  pale  face,  brown  eyes  that  sparkled  with  life 
and  mischief,  and  a rippling  mass  of  reddish-auburn  hair  falling 
down  over  her  back  under  a coquettish  little  felt  hat. 

“Hasn’t  your  mamma  forbidden  jumping.  Vixen?”  remon- 
strated Roderick,  opening  the  gate  and  coming  in. 

“Yes,  that  she  has.  Sir,”  said  the  sober  old  groom,  riding  up 
at  a jog-trot  on  his  thick-set  brown  cob.  “It’s  quite  against 
Mrs.  Tempest’s  orders;  and  it’s  a great  responsibility  to  go  out 
with  Miss  Violet.  She  will  do  it.” 

“You  mean  the  pony  will  do  it.  Badger,”  cried  Vixen.  “J 
don’t  jump.  How  can  I help  it  if  papa  has  given  me  a jumping 
pony?  If  I didn’t  let  Titmouse  take  a gate  when  he  ^vas  in  the 
humor,  he’d  kick  like  old  boots,  and  pitch  fne  a cropper.  It’s  an 
instinct  of  self-preservation  that  makes  me  let  him  jump.  And 
as  for  poor,  dear,  pretty  little  mamma,”  continued  Vixen,  ad- 
dressing herself  to  Roderick,  and  changing  her  tone  to  one  of 
patronizing  tenderness,  “if  she  had  her  way,  I should  be 
brought  up  in  a little  box  wrapped  in  jeweler’s  wool  to  keep  me 
safe.  But,  you  see,  I take  after  papa,  Rorie;  and  it  comes  as 
natural  to  me  to  fly  over  gates  as  it  does  to  you  to  get  ploughed 
for  smalls.  There,  Badger,”  jumping  off  the  pony,  “you  may 
take  Titmouse  home,  and  I’ll  come  presently  and  give  him  some 
apples,  for  he  has  been  a dear,  darling,  precious  treasure  of  a 
ponykins.” 

She  emphasized  this  commendation  with  a kiss  on  Titmouse’s 
gi’ay  nose,  and  handed  the  bridle  to  Badger. 

“I’m  going  to  w^alk  home  with  Mr.  Vawdrey,”  she  said. 

“But,  Vixen,  I can’t,  really,”  said  Roderick.  “I’m  due  at 
home  at  this  moment,  only  I couldn’t  leave  without  saying 
good-byo  to  little  Vix.” 

“And  you’re  overdue  at  Oxford,  too,  aren’t  you?”  cried 
Vixen,  laughing;  “ you’re  always  due  somewhere — never  in  tlie 
right  place.  But  w hether  you  are  due  or  not,  you’re  coming 
up  to  the  stables  with  me  to  give  Titmouse  his  apples,  and  then 


Fixm 


3 


you’re  coming  to  dine  with  us  on  your  last  night  at  home.  I 
insist  upon  it;  papa  insists;  mamma  insists — we  all  insist.” 

“ My  mother  will  be  as  angry  as- ” 

“ Old  boots!”  interjected  Vixen.  “ That’s  the  best  comparison 
I know.” 

“ Awfully  vulgar  for  a young  lady.” 

“You  taught  it  me.  How  can  I help  being  vulgar  when  I 
associate  with  you  ? You  should  hear  Miss  M’Croke  preach  at  me 
— sermons  so  long  ” — here  Vixen  extended  her  arms  to  the  utter- 
most— and  I'm  afraid  they’d  make  as  much  impression  on  lit- 
mouse  as  they  do  upon  me.  But  she’s  a dear  old  thing,  and  I 
love  her  immensely.” 

This  was  always  Vixen’s  way,  making  up  for  all  short-com- 
ings with  the  abundance  of  her  love.  The  heart  was  always 
atoning  for  the  errors  of  the  head. 

“ I wouldn’t  be  Miss  M’Croke  for  anything.  She  must  have  a 
bad  time  of  it  with  you.” 

‘‘She  has,”  assented  Vixen,  with  a remorseful  sigh,  “I  fear 
I’m  bringing  her  sandy  hairs  in  sorrow  to  the  grave.  That  hair 
of  hers  never  could  be  gray,  you  know;  it’s  too  self-opinionated 
in  its  sandiness.  Now  come  along,  Korie,  do!  Titmouse  will  be 
stamping  about  his  box  like  a maniac  if  he  doesn't  get  those  ap- 
ples.*’ 

She  gave  a little  tug  with  both  her  small  doeskin-covered 
hands  at  Eoderick’s  arm.  He  was  still  standing  by  the  gate  ir- 
resolute, inclination  drawing  him  to  the  Abbey  House,  duty 
calling  him  home  to  Briarwood,  five  miles  off,  where  his  widowed 
mother  was  expecting  his  return. 

“ My  last  night  at  home,  Vix,”  he  said,  remonstrantly;  “I  re- 
ally ought  to  dine  with  my  mother.” 

“ Of  course  you  ought,  and  that’s  the  very  reason  why  you’ll 
dine  with  us.  ‘ Kim  over,  now,’  as  Badger  says  to  the  horses. 
I don’t  know  what  there  is  for  dinner,”  she  added,  confidentially, 
“ but  I feel  sure  it’s  something  nice.  Dinner  is  papa’s  strong 
point,  you  know.  He’s  very  weak  about  dinner.” 

“ Not  so  weak  as  he  is  about  you,  Vixen.^’ 

“ Do  you  really  think  papa  is  as  fond  of  me  as  he  is  of  his  din- 
ner ?” 

“ I’m  sure  of  it!” 

“Then  he  must  be  very  fond  of  m(‘,”  exclaimed  Vixen,  with 
conviction.  “ Now,  are  you  coming?” 

Who  could  resist  those  little  soft  hands  in  doeskin?  Certainly 
not  Rorie.  He  resigned  himself  to  the  endurance  of  his  mother’s 
anger  in  the  future  as  a price  to  be  paid  for  the  indulgence  of  his 
inclination  in  the  present,  gave  Vixen  his  arm,  and  turned  his 
face  toward  the  Abbey  House. 

They  walked  through  shrubberies  that  would  have  seemed  a 
pathless  wilderness  to  a stranger,  but  every  turn  in  which  was 
familiar  to  these  two.  The  ground  was  undulating,  and  vast 
thickets  of  rhododendron  and  azalea  rose  high  above  them,  or 
♦ank  in  green  valleys  below  their  path.  Here  and  there  a group 
of  tall  firs  towered  skyward  above  the  dark  entanglement  of 


4 


VIXEN. 


shrubs,  or  a great  beech  spread  its  wide  limbs  over  the  hollows; 
here  and  there  a pool  of  water  reflected  the  pale  moonshine. 

The  house  lay  low,  sheltered  and  shut  in  by  those  rhododendron 
thickets,  a long,  rambling  pile  of  building,  which  had  been  added 
to,  and  altered,  and  taken  away  from,  and  added  to  again,  like 
that  well-known  puzzle  in  mental  arithmetic  which  used  to 
amuse  us  in  our  childhood.  It  was  all  gables,  and  chimney- 
stacks,  and  odd  angles,  and  ivy-mantled  wail,  and  riclily- 
mullioned  windows,  or  quaint  little  diamond-paned  lattices, 
peeping  like  a watchful  eye  from  under  the  shadow  of  a jutting 
cornice.  The  stables  had  been  added  in  Queen  Elizabeth’s  time, 
after  the  monks  liad  been  routed  from  their  snug  quarters,  and 
the  Abbey  had  been  bestowed  upon  one  of  the  Tudor  favorites. 
These  Elizabethan  stables  formed  the  four  sides  of  a quadrangle, 
stone-paved,  with  an  old  marble  basin  in  the  center — a basin 
which  the  vicar  pronounced  to  be  an  early  Saxon  font,  but 
which  Squire  Tempest  refused  to  have  removed  from  the  place 
it  had  occupied  ever  since  the  stables  were  built.  There  were 
curious  carvings  upon  the  six  sides,  but  so  covered  with  mosses 
and  lichens  that  nobody  could  tell  what  they  meant;  and  the 
squire  forbade  any  scraping  process  by  officious  antiquarians, 
which  might  lead  to  somebody’s  forcible  appropriation  of  the 
ancient  basin. 

The  squire  was  not  so  modern  in  his  ideas  as  to  set  up  his  own 
gasometer,  so  the  stables  were  lighted  by  lanterns,  with  an  oil- 
lamp  fixed  here  and  there  against  the  wall.  Into  this  dim,  un- 
certain light  came  Roderick  and  Vixen  through  the  deep,  stone 
archway  which  opened  from  the  shrubbery  into  the  stable-yard, 
and  which  was  solid  enough  for  the  gate  of  a fortified  town. 

Titmouse’s  stable  was  lighted  better  then  the  rest.  The  door 
stood  open,  and  there  was  Titmouse,  with  the  neat  little  quilted 
doeskin  saddle  still  on  his  back,  waiting  to  be  fed  and  petted  by 
his  young  mistress.  It  was  a pretty  picture,  the  old  low-ceiled 
stable,  with  its  wide  stalls  and  roomy  loose  boxes  and  carpet  of 
plaited  straw,  golden  against  the  deep  brown  /)f  the  wood- 
work. 

Vixen  ran  into  the  box  and  took  off  Titmouse’s  bridle,  behold- 
ing down  his  head,  like  a child  submitting  to  be  undresi^d. 
Then,  with  many  vigorous  tugs  at  straps  and  buckles,  and  a 
.good  deal  of  screwing  up  of  her  rosy  lips  in  the  course  of  the 
effort.  Vixen  took  off  her  pony’s  saddle. 

“ I like  to  do  everything  I can  for  him,”  she  explained,  as 
Rorie  watched  her  with  an  amused  smile.  “ I’d  wisp  liim  down 
if  they’d  let  me.” 

She  left  the  leather  panel  on  Titmouse’s  back,  hung  up  saddle 
and  bridle,  and  skipped  off  to  a corn  chest  to  hunt  for  apples. 
Of  these  she  brought  half  a dozen  or  so  in  the  skirt  of  her  habit, 
and  then,  swinging  herself  lightly  into  a comfortable  comer 
of  the  manger,  began  to  carry  out  lier  system  of  reward  for 
good  conduct,  with  much  coquetry  on  her  part  and  Titmouse's, 
Korie  watching  it  all  from  the  empty  stall  adjoining,  his  folded 
aims  resting  on  the  top  of  the  partition.  He  said  not  another 
word  about  his  mother,  or  the  duty  that  called  him  home  to  Bri- 


VIXEN.  5 

arwood,  but  stood  and  watched  this  pretty  horse-breaker  in  a 
dreamy  contentment. 

What  was  Violet  Tempest,  otherwise  Vixen,  like,  this  October 
evening,  just  three  months  before  her  fifteenth  birthday?  She 
made  a lovely  picture  in  this  dim  light,  as  slie  sat  in  the  corner 
of  the  old  manger,  holding  a rosy-cheeked  apple  at  a tantalizing 
distance  from  Titmouse’s  nose;  but  she  was,  perhaps,  not  alto- 
gether lovely.  She  was  bi  iiiiant  rather  than  absolutely  beautiful.^ 
The  white  skin  was  powdered  with  freckles.  The  rippling  hair 
was  too  warm  an  auburn  to  escape  an  occasional  unfriendly 
remark  from  captious  critics,  but  it  was  not  red  hair  for  all  that. 
The  eyes  were  brownest  of  the  browm,  large,  bright,  and  full  of 
expression.  The  mouth  was  a thought  too  wdde,  but  it  was  a 
lovely  mouth  notwithstanding.  The  lips  were  full  and  firmly 
molded — lips  that  could  mean  anything,  from  melting  ten- 
derness to  sternest  resolve.  Such  lips,  a little  parted  to  show 
the  whitest,  evenest  teeth  in  Hampshire,  seemed  to  Rorie  lovely 
enough  to  please  the  most  critical  connoisseur  of  feminine  beauty. 
The  nose  was  short  and  straight,  but  had  a trick  of  tilting  itself 
upward  with  a little  impatient  jerk  that  made  it  seem  retrousse; 
the  chin  was  round  and  full  and  dimpled;  the  throat  was  full  and 
round  also — a white  column  supporting  the  tawny  head,  and  in- 
dicated that  Vixen  was  meant  to  be  a powerful  woman,  and  not 
one  of  those  ethereal  nymphs  who  lend  themselves  most  readily 
to  the  decorative  art  of  a court  milliner. 

^T’m  afraid  Violet  wdll  be  a dreadfully  large  creature,”  Mrs. 
Tempest  murmured,  plaintively,  as  the  girl  grew  and  fiourished; 
that  lady  herself  being  ethereal,  and  considering  her  owm  appear- 
ance a strictly  correct  standard  of  beauty.  How  could  it  be 
otherwise,  when  she  had  been  known  before  her  marriage  as 
“the  pretty  Miss  Calthorpe?” 

“ This  is  very  nice,  you  know.  Vixen,”  said  Roderick,  critically, 
as  Titmouse  made  a greedy  snap  at  an  apple,  and  was  repulsed 
with  a gentle  pat  on  his  nose,  “ but  it  can’t  go  on  forever.  What’ll 
you  do  when  you  are  grown  up  ?” 

“ Have  a horse  instead  of  a pony,”  answered  Vixen,  unhesitat- 
ingly. 

“ And  will  that  be  all  the  difference?” 

“ I don’t  see  what  other  difference  there  can  be.  I shall  al- 
ways love  papa;  I shall  always  love  hunting;  I shall  always  love 
mamma — as  much  as  she’ll  let  me.  What  difference  can  a few 
more  birthdays  mak^  in  me  ? I shall  be  too  big  for  Titmouse, 
that’s  the  only  misfortune;  but  I shall  always  keep  him  for  my 
pet,  and  I’ll  have  a basket-carriage,  and  drive  him  when  I go  tt) 
see  my  poor  people.  Sitting  behind  a pony  is  an  awful  bore 
when  one’s  natural  place  is  on  his  back;  but  I’d  sooner  endure  it 
than  let  Titmouse  fancy  himself  superannuated.”  ^ 

“But  when  you’re  grown  up  you’ll  have  to  come  out,  Vixen. 
You’ll  be  obliged  to  go  to  London  for  a season,  and  be  presented, 
and  go  to  no  end  of  balls,  and  ride  in  the  Row,  and  make  a grand 
marriage,  and  have  a page  all  to  yourself  in  the  Court  Journal. 

“Catch  me — agoing  to  London!”  exclaimed  Vixen,  ignoring 
the  latter  part  of  the  sentence.  “ Papa  hates  London,  and  so  do 


0 


vixm. 


I.  And  as  to  riding  in  Rotten  "Row^je  vondrais  bien  vie  voir 
faisant  cela,^'  added  Vixen,  whose  study  of  the  French  language 
chiefly  resulted  in  the  endeavor  to  translate  English  slang  into 
that  tongue.  “No;  when  I grow  up  I shall  take  papa  the  tom-  of 
Europe.  We’ll  see  all  those  places  I’m  worried  about  at  lessons — 
Marathon,  Egypt,  Naples,  the  Peloponnesus,  tout  le  treviblevient 
— and  I shall  say  to  each  of  them,  ‘ Oh,  this  is  you,  is  it?  W'hat 
a nuisance  you’ve  been  to  me  on  the  map!’  We  shall  go  up 
Mount  Vesuvius,  and  the  Pyramids,  and  do  all  sorts  of  wild 
things;  and  by  the  time  I come  home  I shall  have  forgotten  the 
whole  of  my  education.” 

“ If  Miss  M’Croke  could  hear  you!” 

“ She  does,  often.  You  can’t  imagine  the  wild  things  I say  to 
her.  But  I love  her — fondly.” 

A great  bell  clanged  out  with  a vigorous  peal  that  seemed  to 
shake  the  old  stable. 

“ There’s  the  first  bell;  I must  run  and  dress.  Come  to  the 
drawing-room  and  see  mamma.” 

“But,  Vixen,  how  can  I sit  down  to  dinner  in  such  a cos- 
tume ?”  remonstrated  Rorie,  looking  down  at  his  brown  shooting 
suit,  leather  gaiters,  and  tremendous  boots — boots  which,  in- 
stead of  being  beautified  with  blacking,  were  suppled  with 
tallow.  “ I can’t  do  it,  really.” 

“Nonsense!”  cried  Vixen;  “what  does  it  matter?  Papa  sel- 
dom dresses  for  dinner.  I believe  he  considers  it  a sacrifice  to 
mamma’s  sense  of  propriety  when  he  washes  his  hands  after 
coming  in  from  the  home  farm.  And  you  are  only  a boy — I beg 
pardon — an  under-graduate.  So  come  along.” 

“ But  upon  my  word.  Vixen,  I feel  too  much  ashamed  of  my- 
self.” 

“I’ve  asked  you  to  dinner,  and  you’ve  accepted,”  cried  Vixen, 
pulling  him  out  of  the  stable  by  the  lapel  of  his  shooting  jacket. 

He  seemed  to  relish  that  mode  of  locomotion,  for  he  aflowed 
himself  to  be  pulled  all  the  way  to  the  hall  door,  and  into  the 
glow  of  the  great  big  fire— a ruddy  light  which  shone  upon  many 
a sporting  trophy,  and  reflected  itself  on  many  a gleaming  pike 
and  cuirass,  belonging  to  days  of  old,  when  gentlemanly  sport 
for  the  most  part  meant  man-hunting. 

It  was  a fine  old  vaulted  hall,  a place  to  love,  and  remember 
lovingly  when  far  away.  The  walls  were  all  of  darkly  bright 
oak  paneling,  save  where  here  and  there  a square  of  tapestry 
hung  before  a door,  or  a painted  window  let  in  the  moonlight. 
At  one  end  there  was  a great  arched  fire-place,  the  arch  sur- 
mounted with  Squire  Tempest’s  armorial  bearings,  roughly  cut 
in  freestone.  A mailed  figure  of  the  usual  stumpy  build,  in 
helm  and  hauberk,  stood  on  each  side  of  the  hearth;  a large  three- 
cornered  chair,  covered  with  stamped  and  gilded  leather,  was 
drawn  up  to  the  fireside,  the  squire’s  favorite  seat  on  an  autumn 
or  winter  afternoon.  The  cliair  was  empty  now,  but,  stretched 
at  full  length  before  the  blazing  logs,  lay  the  squire’s  chosen 
companion,  Nip,  a powerful  liver-colored  pointer;  and  beside 
him,  in  equally  luxurious  rest,  reclined  Argus,  Vixen’s  mastitf. 
There  was  a story  about  Vixen  and  the  mastiff,  involving  the 


VIXEN.  7 

only  incident  in  that  young  lady’s  life  the  recollection  whereof 
could  make  her  blush. 

The  dog,  apparently  coiled  in  deepest  slumber,  heard  the  light 
footsteps  on  the  hall  floor,  pricked  up  his  tawny  ears,  sprang  to 
his  feet,  and  bounded  over  to  his  young  mistress,  whom  he 
nearly  knocked  down  in  the  warmth  of  his  welcome.  Nip,  the 
pointer,  blinked  at  the  intruders,  yawned  desperately,  stretched 
himself  a trifle  longer,  and  relapsed  into  slumber. 

“ How  fond  that  brute  is  of  you,”  said  Rorie;  “but  its  no 
wonder  when  one  considers  what  you  did  for  him.” 

“ If  you  say  another  word  I shall  hate  you,”  cried  Vixen,  sav- 
agely. 

“But  you  know  when  a fellow  fights  another  fellow’s  battles 
the  other  fellow’s  bound  to  be  fond  of  him;  and  when  a young 
lady  pitches  into  a bird-boy  with  her  riding-whip  to  save  a mas- 
tiff pup  from  ill-usage,  that  mastiff  pup  is  bound ” 

“ Mamma,”  cried  Vixen,  flinging  aside  a tapestry  portiere, 
and  bouncing  into  the  drawing-rocm,  “here’s  Roderick;  and 
he’s  come  to  dinner,  and  you  must  excuse  his  shooting-dress, 
please,  lam  sure  pa  will.” 

“ Certainly,  my  dear  Violet,”  replied  a gentle,  tramante  voice 
from  the  fire-lit  dimness  near  the  velvet- curtained  hearth.  “ Of 
course  I am  always  glad  to  see  Mr.  Vawdrey  wlien  your  papa 
asks  him.  Where  did  you  meet  the  squire,  Roderick  ?” 

“ Upon  my  word,  Mrs.  Tempest,”  faltered  Rorie,  coming 
slowly  forward  into  the  ruddy  glow,  “ I feel  quite  awfully 
ashamed  of  myself;  I’ve  been  rabbit-shooting,  and  I’m  a most 
horrid  object.  It  wasn’t  the  squire  asked  me.  It  was  Vixen.” 

Vixen  made  a ferocious  grimace  at  him — he  could  just  see  her 
distorted  countenance  in  the  fire-light — and  further  expressed 
her  aggravation  by  a smart  crack  of  her  whip. 

“Violet,  my  love,  you  have  such  startling  ways,”  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Tempest,  with  a long-suffering  air.  “ Really,  Miss  M’Croke, 
you  ought  to  try  and  correct  her  of  those  startling  ways.” 

On  this  Roderick  became  aware  of  a stout  figure  in  a tartan 
dress  knitting  industriousl}^  on  the  side  of  the  hearth  opposite 
Mrs.  Tempest’s  sofa.  He  could  just  see  the  flash  of  those  active 
needles,  and  could  just  hear  Miss  M’Croke  murmur  placidly  that 
she  had  corrected  Violet,  and  that  it  was  no  use. 

Rone  remembered  that  plaid  poplin  dress  when  he  was  at 
Eton.  It  was  a royal  Stuart,  too  brilliant  to  be  forgotten.  He 
used  to  wonder  whether  it  would  ever  wear  out,  or  whether  it 
was  not  made  of  some  indestructible  tissue,  like  asbestos — a fabric 
that  neither  time  nor  fire  could  destroy. 

“ It  was  Rorie’s  last  night,  you  see,  mamma,”  apologized  Vixen, 
“ and  I knew  you  and  papa  would  like  him  to  come,  and  that 
you  wouldn’t  mind  his  shooting  clothes  a bit,  though  they  do 
make  him  look  like  the  under-keeper,  except  that  the  under- 
keeper’s better-looking  than  Rorie,  and  has  finished  growing  his 
whiskers,  instead  of  living  in  the  expectation  of  them.” 

And  with  this  Parthian  shot  Vixen  made  a pirouette  on  her 
neat  little  morocco-shod  toes,  and  whistled  herself  out  of  the 
room,  leaving  Roderick  Vawdrey  to  make  the  best  of  his  exis^ 


8 


VIXEN. 


ence  for  the  next  twenty  minutes  with  the  two  women  he 
alwa^'s  found  ifc  most  difficult  to  get  on  with.  Mrs.  Tempest 
and  Sliss  M’Croke. 

The  logs  broke  into  a crackling  blaze  just  at  this  moment, 
and  lighted  up  that  luxurious  hearth  and  the  two  figures  be- 
side it. 

It  was  the  prettiest  thing  imaginable  in  the  way  of  a drawing- 
room, that  spacious,  low-ceiled  chamber  in  the  Abbey  House. 

The  oak  paneling  was  painted  white — a barbarity  on  the  part 
of  those  modern  Goths,  the  West  End  decorators,  but  a charm- 
ing background  for  quaint  Venetian  mirrors,  hanging  shelves  of 
curious  old  china,  dainty  little  groups  of  richly  bound  duodeci- 
mos, brackets,  bronzes,  freshest  flowers  in  majolica  jars;  water- 
color  sketches  by  Hunt,  Front,  Cattermole,  and  Duncan;  sage- 
green  silk  curtains,  black  and  gold  furniture,  and  all  the  latest 
prettinesses  of  the  new  Jacobean  school.  The  mixture  of  real 
mediaevalism  and  modern  quaintness  was  delightful.  One.hardly 
knew  where  the  rococo  began,  or  the  mediaeval  left  oft.  The 
good  old  square  fire-place,  with  its  projecting  canopy,  and  col- 
umns in  white  and  colored  marbles,  was  as  old  as  the  days  of 
Inigo  Jones;  but  the  painted  tiles,  with  their  designs  from  the 
Iliad  and  Odyssey,  after  Dante  Eossetti,  were  the  newest  thing 
from  Minton’s  factory. 

Even  Rorie  felt  that  the  room  was  pretty,  though  he  did  above 
all  things  abhor  to  be  trapped  in  it,  as  he  found  himself  this 
October  evening. 

“ There’s  a great  lot  of  rubbish  in  it,”  he  used  to  say  of  Mrs. 
Tempest’s  d redwing -room,  “ but  it’s  rather  nice  altogether.” 

Mrs.  Tempest  at  five-and-thirty  still  retained  the  good  looks 
which  had  distinguished  Miss  Calthorpe  at  nineteen.  She  was 
small  and  slim,  with  a delicate  complexion;  soft,  blue  eyes,  u 
limpid,  innocent  azure;  regular  features,  rosebud  lips,  hands  after 
Velasquez;  and  an  unexceptionable  taste  in  dress,  the  selection 
of  which  formed  one  of  the  most  onerous  occupations  of  her  life. 
To  attire  herself  becomingly,  and  to  give  the  squire  the  dinners 
he  best  liked,  in  an  order  of  succession  so  dexterously  arranged 
as  never  to  provoke  satiety,  were  Mrs.  Tempest’s  cardinal  duties. 
In  the  intervals  of  her  life  she  read  modern  poetry,  French  novels, 
and  reviews,  did  a little  high-art  needle-work,  played  Mendels- 
sohn’s ‘‘Lieder,”  sang  three  French  chansons  which  her  husband 
liked,  slept,  and  drank  orange  pekoe.  In  thcj  consumption  of 
this  last  article,  Mrs.  Tempest  was  as  bad  as  a dram-drinker. 
She  declared  her  inability  to  support  life  without  that  gentle 
stimulant,  and  required  to  be  wound  up  at  various  hours  of  her 
languid  day  with  a dose  of  her  favorite  beverage. 

“I  think  I’ll  take  a cup  of  tea.”  was  Mrs.  Tempest’s  inevitable 
remark  at  every  crisis  of  her  existence. 

‘‘  And  so  yon  are  going  back  to  Oxford,  Roderick?”  the  lady 
began,  with  a languid  kindness. 

Mrs.  Tempest  had  never  been  known  to  be  unkind  to  any  one. 
She  regarded  aU  her  fellow-creatures  with  a gentle  tolerance. 
They  were  there,  a necessary  element  of  the  universe,  and  she 
bore  with  them.  But  she  had  never  attached  herself  particularly 


VIXEN. 


9 


to  any  body  except  the  squire.  Him  she  adored.  He  took  al^ 
the  trouble  of  life  off  her  hands,  and  gave  her  all  good  things* 
She  had  been  poor,  and  he  had  made  her  rich;  nobody,  and  he 
had  elevated  her  into  somebody.  She  loved  him  with  a canine 
fidelity,  and  felt  toward  him  as  a dog  feels  toward  his  master — 
that  in  him  this  round  world  begins  and  ends. 

‘‘Yes,”  assented  Rorie,  with  a sigh,  “I’m  going  up  to-mor- 
row.” 

“ Why  up  ?”  inquired  Miss  M’Croke,  without  lifting  her  eyes 
from  her  needles.  “ It  isn’t  up  on  the  map.” 

“ I hope  you  are  going  to  get  a grand  degree,”  continued  Mrs. 
Tempest,  in  that  soft,  conciliatory  voice  of  hers-—“  Senior 
Wrangler,  or  something.” 

“ That’s  the  other  shop,”  exclaimed  Rorie;  “ they  grow  that  sort 
of  timber  at  Ca  mbridge.  However,  I hope  to  pull  myself  through 
somehow  or  other  tliis  time,  for  my  mother’s  sake.  She  at- 
taches a good  deal  of  importance  to  it,  though  for  my  own  part 
I can’t  see  what  good  it  can  do  me.  It  won’t  make  me  farm  my 
own  land  better,  or  ride  straighter  to  hounds,  or  do  my  duty  bet- 
ter to  my  tenants.” 

“ Education,”  said  Miss  M’Croke,  sententiously,  “ is  always  a 
good,  and  we  can  not  too  lughly  estimate  its  influence  upon ” 

“ Oh  yes,  I know,”  answered  Rorie,  quickly,  for  he  knew  that 
when  tile  flood-gates  of  Miss  M’Croke’s  eloquence  were  once 
loosened  the  tide  ran  strong;  “ when  house  and  lands  are  gone 
and  spent  a man  may  turn  usher  in  an  academy,  and  earn  fifty 
pounds  a year  and  his  laundress’s  bill  by  grinding  Caesar’s  Com- 
mentaries into  small  boys.  But  I shouldn’t  lay  in  a stock  of 
learning  with  that  view.  Wlien  my  house  and  lands  are  gone. 
I’ll  go  after  them — emigrate,  and  go  into  the  lumber  trade  in 
Canada.” 

“What  a dreadful  ideal”  said  Mrs.  Tempest.  “But  you  are 
not  going  to  lose  house  and  lands,  Roderick— such  a nice  place 
as  Briar  wood.” 

“ To  my  mind  it’s  rather  a commonplace  hole,”  answered  the 
young  man,  carelessly;  “ but  the  land  is  some  of  the  best  in  the 
country.” 

Ifc  must  be  nearly  seven  by  this  time,  he  thought.  He  was 
getting  through  this  period  of  probation  better  than  he  had  ex- 
pected. Mrs.  Tempest  gave  a little  stifled  yawn  behind  her  huge 
black  fan,  upon  which  cupids  and  graces  were  depicted  dancing 
in  the  airiest  attitudes,  after  Boucher.  Roderick  would  have 
liked  to  yawn  in  conceit,  but  at  this  juncture  a sudden  ray  of 
light  flashed  upon  him  and  show^ed  him  a way  of  escape. 

“I  think  I’ll  go  to  the  gentleman’s  room,  and  make  myself 
decent  before  the  second  bell  rings,”  he  said. 

“Do,”  assented  Mrs.  Tempest,  with  another  yawn;  and  the 
young  man  fled. 

He  had  only  time  to  scramble  through  a hurried  toilet,  and 
was  still  feeling  very  doubtful  as  to  the  parting  of  his  short, 
crisp  hair,  when  the  gong  boomed  out  its  friendly  summons. 
The  gentleman’s  room  opened  out  from  the  hall,  and  Rorie 


10  VIXEN. 

heard  the  squire’s  loud  and  jovial  voice  uplifted  as  he  raised  the 
tapestry  curtain. 

Mr.  Tempest  was  standing  in  front  of  the  log  fire,  pulling 
Vixen’s  auburn  hair.  The  girl  had  put  on  a picturesque  brown 
velvet  frock.  A scarlet  sash  was  tied  loosely  round  her  willowy 
waist,  and  a scarlet  ribbon  held  back  the  loose  masses  of  her 
brigh.t  hair. 

“A  study  in  red  and  brown,”  thought  Eorie.  as  the  fire-glow 
lit  up  the  picture  of  the  squire  in  his  hunting  dress  and  the  girl 
in  Inn  warm  velvet  gown. 

“Such  a run,  Rorie!”  cried  the  squire.  “ We  dawdled  about 
among  the  furze  from  twelve  till  four,  doing  nothing,  and  just 
as  it  was  getting  dark  started  a stag  up  on  the  high  ground  this 
side  of  Pickett’s  Post,  and  ran  him  nearly  into  Ringwood.  Go 
in  and  fetch  my  wife,  Rorie.  Oh,  here  she  is  ” — as  the  portiere 
was  lifted  by  a white  ringed  hand.  “ You  must  excuse  me  sit- 
ting down  in  pink  to-day,  Pamela;  I only  got  in  as  the  gong 
began  to  sound,  and  I’m  as  hungry  as  the  proverbial  hunter.” 

“ You  know  I always  think  you  handsomest  in  your  red  coat, 
Edward,”  replied  the  submissive  wife;  “ but  I hope  you’re  not 
very  muddy.” 

“ I won’t  answer  for  myself,  but  I haven’t  been  actually  up  to 
my  neck  in  a bog.” 

Rorie  offered  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Tempest,  and  they  all  went  in  to 
dinner,  the  squire  still  playing  with  his  daughter’s  hair,  and  Miss 
M’Croke  bringing  up  the  rear  solemnly. 

The  dining-room  at  the  Abbey  House  was  the  ancient  ref  rec- 
tory, large  enough  for  a mess-room;  so  when  there  were  no 
visitors  the  Tempests  dined  in  the  library,  a handsome  square 
room,  in  which  old  family  portraits  looked  down  from  the  oak 
paneling  above  the  book-cases,  and  in  which  the  literary  ele- 
ment was  not  obtrusively  conspicuous.  You  felt  that  it  was  a 
room  quite  as  well  adapted  for  conviviality  as  for  study.  There 
was  a cottage  piano  in  a snug  corner  by  the  fireplace.  The 
squire’s  capacious  arm-chair  stood  on  the  other  side  of  tlie 
hearth,  Mrs.  Tempest’s  low  chair  and  gypsy  table  facing  it.  The 
old  oak  buffet  opposite  the  chimney-piece  was  a splendid  speci- 
men of  Elizabethan  carving,  and  made  a rich  background  for 
the  squire’s  racing  cups,  and  a pair  of  Oliver  Cromwell  tank- 
ards, plain  and  unornamental  as  that  illustrious  Roundhead 
himself. 

It  was  a delightful  room  on  a chill  October  evening  like  this; 
the  logs  roaring  up  the  wide  chimney,  a pair  of  bronze  cande- 
labra lighting  the  room  and  table,  Mrs.  Tempest  smiling  pleas- 
antly at  her  unbidden  guest,  and  the  squire  stooping,  red-faced 
and  plethoric,  over  his  mullagatawny;  while  Vixen,  wlio  was  at 
an  age  when  dinner  is  secondary,  was  amusing  herself  with  tlie 
dogs,  gentlemanly  animals,  too  well-bred  to  be  importunate  in 
their  demands  for  an  occasional  tidbit,  and  content  to  lie  in  su- 
perb attitudes,  looking  up  at  the  eaters  with  supplication  in  their 
great  pathetic  brown  eyes. 

“ Rorie  is  going  up  to-morrow — not  in  a balloon,  but  to  Mag- 
dalen College,  Oxford — so,  as  this  was  his  last  night,  I made  him 


VIXEN.  11 

come  to  dinner,”  explained  Vixen,  presently.  ‘‘I  hope  I didn’t 
do  wrong.” 

“ Rorie  knows  he’s  always  welcome.  Have  some  more  of 
that  mullagatawny,  my  lad;  it’s  uncommonly  good.” 

Rorie  declined  the  mullagatawny,  being  at  this  moment 
deeply  engaged  in  watching  Vixen  and  the  dogs.  Nip,  the 
liver-colored  pointer,  was  performing  his  celebrated  statue  feat. 
With  his  fore-legs  stiffly  extended,  and  his  head  proudly  poised, 
he  simulated  a dog  of  marble,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
occasional  bumping  of  his  tail  upon  the  Persian  carpet,  in  an 
irresistible  wag  of  self -approbation,  the  simulation  would  have 
been  perfect. 

*‘Look,  papa!  isn’t  it  beautiful?  I went  out  of  the  room  the 
other  day,  while  Nip  was  doing*  the  statue,  after  Pd  told  him 
not  to  move  a paw,  and  I stayed  away  quite  five  minutes  and 
then  stole  quietly  back,  and  there  he  was,  l3ung  as  still  as  if  he’d 
been  carved  out  of  stone.  Wasn’t  that  fidelity  ? ” 

“ Nonsense  !”  cried  the  squire.  “ But  how’  do  you  know  that 
Nip  didn’t  wind  you  as  you  opened  the  door,  and  get  himself  into 
position?  What  are  these?”  as  the  old  silver  entree  dishes 
came  round.  “Stewed  eels?  You  never  forget  my  tastes, 
Pamela.” 

“Stewed  eels,  sir;  sole  maitre  d’hotel,”  said  the  butler,  in  the 
usual  suppressed  and  deferential  tone. 

Rorie  htdped  himself  automatically,  and  \vent  on  looking  at 
Vixen. 

Her  praises  of  Nip  had  kindled  jealous  fires  in  the  breast  of 
Argus,  her  own  particular  favorite  ; and  the  blunt  black  muzzle 
had  been  thrust  vehementlv  under  her  velvet  sleeve. 

“ Argus  is  angry.”  said  Rorie. 

“ He’s  a dear  old  foolish  thing  to  be  jealous,”  answered  Vixen, 
“ when  he  knows  I’d  go  through  fire  and  water  for  him.” 

“ Or  even  fight  a big  boy,”  cried  the  squire,  throwing  him_self 
back  in  his  chair  wdth  the  unctuous  laughter  of  a man  who  is 
dining  w'ell,  and  knows  it. 

Vixen  blushed  rosiest  red  at  the  allusion. 

• Papa,  3^ou  oughtn’t  to  say  such  things,”  she  cried.  “ I was 
a little  bit  of  a child  then.” 

“Yes,  and  flew  at  a great  bov  of  fourteen  and  licked  him,” 
exclaimed  the  squire,  rapturously.  “ You  know  the  story,  don’t 
you,  Rorie  ?” 

Rorie  had  heard  it  twenty  times,  but  looked  the  picture  of  ig- 
norant expectancy. 

“ You  know  how  Vixen  came  by  Argus  ? What,  you  don’t? 
Well,  I’ll  tell  you.  This  little  yellow  haired  lass  of  mine  was 
barely  nine  years  old,  and  she  'was  riding  through  the  village  on 
her  pony,  with  young  Stubbs  behind  her  on  the  sorrel  mare — and, 
you  know,  to  her  dying  day,  that  sorrel  would  never  let  any 
one  dismount  her  quietly.  Now  v\diat  does  Vixen  spy  but  a lub- 
berly lad  and  a lot  of  small  children  ill-iising  a mastiff  pup? 
They’d  tied  a tin  kettle  to  the  brute’s  tail,  and  were  doing  their 
best  to  drown  him.  There’s  a pond  just  beyond  Mrs.  Farley’s 
cottage,  you  know,  and  into  that  pond  they’d  driven  the  puiDpy, 


4*2 


riXEK 


and  wouldn’t  let  him  get  out  of  it.  As  fast  as  he  scrambled  up 
the  muddy  bank  they  drove  him  back  into  the  water.” 

“ Papa  darling,”  pleaded  Vixen,  despairingly,  ‘‘Eorie  has 
heard  it  all  a thousand  times  before.  Haven’t  you  now,  Rorie?” 

‘‘  It’s  as  new  to  me  as  to-morrow’s  Times,”  said  Roderick,  with 
effrontery. 

“Vixen  was  off  the  pony  before  you  could  say  ‘ Jack  Robin- 
son.’ She  flew  into  the  midst  of  the  dirty  little  ragamuffins, 
seized  th®  biggest  by  the  collar,  and  trundled  him  backward 
into  the  pond,  then  laid  about  her  right  and  left  with  her  whip 
till  the  wretches  scampered  off,  leaving  Vixen  and  the  puppy 
masters  of  the  situation,  and  by  this  time  the  sorrel  mare  haS 
allowed  Stubbs  to  get  off  her,  and  Stubbs  came  up  to  her  rescue. 
The  young  ringleader  had  been  too  much  surprised  by  his  duck- 
ing to  pull  himself  together  again  before  this,  but  be  came  up  to 
time  now,  and  had  it  out  with  Stubbs,  while  the  sorrel  was  doing 
as  much  damage  as  she  conveniently  could  to  Mrs.  Farley’s  pal- 
ings. ‘ Don’t  quite  kill  him,  please,  Stubbs,’  cried  Vixen,  ‘ al- 
though he  richly  deserves  it,’  and  then  she  took  the  muddy  little 
beast  up  in  her  arms  and  ran  home,  leaving  her  pony  to  fate 
and  Stubbs.  Stubbs  told  me  the  whole  story,  with  tears  in  his 
. eyes.  ‘ Who’d  ha’  thought,  squire,  the  little  lady  would  ha’  been 
such  a game  un  ?’  said  Stubbs.” 

“ It’s  very  horrid  of  you,  papa,  to  tell  such  silly  old  stories,” 
remonstrated  Vixen.  “ That  was  nearly  seven  years  ago,  and 
Dr.  Dewsnapp  told  us  that  everybody  undergoes  a complete 
change  of — what  is  it  ? — all  the  tissues — in  siwen  years.  I’m  not 
the  same  Vixen  that  pushed  the  boy  into  the  pond,  There^s  not 
a bit  of  her  left  in  me.” 

And  so  the  dinner  went  on  and  ended,  with  a good  deal  of  dis- 
traction, caused  by  the  dogs,  and  a mild  little  remark  now  and 
then  from  Mrs.  Tempest,  or  a wise  interjection  now  and  then 
from  Miss  M‘Croke,  wlm  in  a manner  represented  the  Goddess 
of  Wisdom  in  this  somewhat  frivolous  family,  and  came  in  with 
a corrective  and  solemnly  rational  observation  when  the  talk 
was  drifting  toward  idiocy. 

The  filberts,  bloomy  purple  grapes,  and  ruddy  pippins,  and 
yellow  William  pears  had  gone  their  rounds — all  home  produce 
— and  had  been  admired  and  praised,  and  the  squire’s  voice  was 
mellowing  after  his  second  glass  of  port,  when  the  butler  came 
in  with  a letter  on  a salver,  and  brought  it,  with  muffled  foot- 
fall and  solemn  visage,  as  of  one  who  carried  a deal  h-warrant, 
to  Roderick  Vawdrey. 

The  young  man  looked  at  it  as  if  he  had  encountered  an  un- 
expected visitor  of  the  adder  tribe. 

“ My  mother,”  he  faltered. 

It  was  a large  and  handsome  letter  with  a big  red  seal. 

“ May  I?”  asked  Rorie,  with  a troubled  visage,  and  having  re- 
ceived his  host  and  hostess’s  assent,  broke  the  seal. 

“ Dear  Roderick, — Is  it  quite  kind  of  you  to  absent  yourself 
on  this  your  last  night  at  home?  I feel  very  sure  that  this  will 
find  you  at  the  Abbey  House,  and  I send  the  brougham  at  a vent- 


VIXEN. 


13 


ure.  Be  good  enough  to  come  home  at  once.  The  Dovedales 
arrived  at  Ashbourne  quite  unexpectedly  this  afternoon,  and  are 
dining  with  me  on  purpose  to  see  you  before  you  go  back  to 
Oxford.  If  your  own  good  feeling  did  not  urge  you  to  spend 
this  last  evening  with  me,  I wonder  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tempest 
were  not  kind  enough  to  suggest  to  you  which  way  your  duty 
lay.  Yours,  anxiously.  Jane  Vawdrey.” 

Roderick  crumpled  the  letter  with  an  angry  look.  That  fling 
at  the  Tempests  hit  him  hard.  Why  was  it  that  his  mother  was 
always  so  ready  to  find  fault  with  these  chosen  friends  of  his  ? 

“Any  thing  wrong,  Rorie?”  asked  the  squire. 

“Nothing;  except  that  the  Dovedales  are  dining  with  uiy 
mother;  and  I’m  to  go  home  directly.” 

“If  you  please,  ma’am.  Master  Vawdrey’s  servant  has  come 
for  him,”  said  Vixen,  mimicking  the  style  of  announcement  at 
a juvenile  party.  “ It’s  quite  too  bad,  Rorie.”  she  went  on;  “I 
had  made  up  my  mind  to  beat  you  at  p,yramids;  but  I dare  say 
you’re  very  glad  to  have  the  chance  of  seeing  your  pretty  cousin 
before  you  leave  Hampshire.” 

But  Rorie  shook  his  head  dolefully,  made  his  adieux,  and  de- 
parted. 


CHAPTER  IT. 

RORIE  IS  TAKEN  TO  TASK. 

“ It  is  not  dogs  only  that  are  jealous,”  thought  Roderick,  as 
he  went  home  in  the  brougham  with  all  the  v/indows  down,  and 
the  cool  night  breeze  blowing  his  cigar  smoke  avvay  into  the 
forest  to  mix  with  the  mist  wreaths  that  were  curling  up  from 
the  soft  ground.  It  was  an  offense  of  the  highest  rank  to  smoke 
in  his  mother’s  carriage,  but  Rorie  was  in  an  evil  temper  just 
now,  and  found  a kind  of  bitter  pleasure  in  disobedience. 

The  carriage  bowled  swiftly  along  the  straight,  v/ell-made 
road;  but  Rorie  bated  riding  in  a brougham.  The  soft  padded 
confinement  galled  him. 

“Why  couldn’t  she  send  me  my  dog-cart !”  he  asked  himself, 
indi^antly. 

Briar ^mod  was  a large  white  house  in  a park.  It  stood  on 
much  liigher  ground  than  the  Abbey  House,  and  was  altogether 
different  from  that  good  old  relic  of  by-gone  civilization.  Briar- 
wood  was  distinctly  modern.  Its  decorations  savore  i of  the 
Regency;  its  furniture  was  old -fashioned,  without  being  antique. 
The  classic  stiffness  and  straightness  of  the  first  French  Emphe 
distinguished  the  gilded  chairs  and  tables  in  the  drawing-rooms. 
There  were  statues  by  Chantrey  and  Canova  in  the  spacious, 
lofty  hall;  portraits  by  Lawrence  and  Romney  in  the  dining- 
room; a historical  picture  by  Copley  over  the  elephantine  ma- 
hogany sideboard;  a Greek  sarcophagus  for  wines  under  it. 

At  its  best,  the  Briarwmod  House  was  commonplace;  but  to 
the  mind  of  Lady  Jane  Vawdrey,  the  gardens  and  hot-houses 
made  amends.  She  was  a profound  horticulturist,  and  spent 
half  her  income  on  orchids  and  rare  newly  imported  flowers,  and 


14  VIXEN. 

by  this  means  she  had  made  Briarwood  one  of  the  show  places 
of  the  neighliorhood. 

A woman  must  be  distinguished  for  something,  or  she  is  no 
better  than  her  scullery- maid,”  said  Lady  Jane  to  her  son,  ex- 
cusing herself  for  these  extravagances.  “ I have  no  talent  for 
music,  painting,  or  poetry,  so  I devote  myself  to  orchids;  and 
perhaps  my  orciiids  turn  out  better  than  many  people’s  music 
and  poetry.” 

Lady  Jane  is  not  a pleasant- tempered  woman,  and  enjoys  the 
privilege  of  being  more  feared  than  liked — a privilege  of  which 
she  makes  the  most,  and  which  secures  her  immunity  from 
many  annoyances  to  which  good-natured  people  are  subject. 
She  does  good  to  her  poor  neighbors  in  her  own  cold,  set  way; 
but  the  poor  people  about  Briarwood  do  not  send  to  her  for  wine 
and  brandy  as  if  she  kept  a public-house,  and  was  benefited  by 
their  liberal  patronage;  the  curate  at  the  little  Gothic  church 
down  in  the  tiny  viila,ge  in  a hollow  of  the  wooded  hills  does  not 
appeal  to  Lady  Jane  in  his  necessities  for  church  or  jrarish.  She 
subscribes  handsomely  to  all  orthodox  well-established  charities, 
but  is  not  prone  to  accidental  benevolence.  Nobody  ever  dis- 
appoints her  when  she  gives  a dinner,  or  omits  the  duty  call 
afterward;  but  she  has  no  unceremonious  gatherings,  no  gossipy 
kettle-drums,  no  hastily  arranged  picnics  or  garden  parties. 
When  people  in  the  neighborhood  want  to  take  their  friends  to 
see  the  orchids,  they  write  to  Lady  Jane  first,  and  make  it  quite  a 
state  affair;  and  on  an  appointed  afternoon  the  lady  of  Briarwood 
receives  them,  richly  clad  in  a dark  velvet  gown  and  a point- 
lace  cap,  as  if  she  had  just  walked  out  of  an  old  picture,  and 
there  are  tliree  or  four  gardeners  in  attendance  to  open  doors  and 
cut  specimen  blossoms  for  the  guests. 

“She’s  a splendid  woman,  admirable  in  every  w^ay,”  said 
Roderick  to  an  Oxford  chum,  with  whom  he  had  been  discussing 
Lady  Jane’s  virtues;  “ but  if  a fellow  could  have  a voice  in  the 
matter,  she’s  not  the  mother  I should  have  cliosen.” 

Ambition  was  the  ieadins:  characteristic  of  Lady  Jane’s  mind. 
As  a girl,  she  had  been  ambitious  for  herself,  and  that  ambition 
had  been  disappointed;  as  a woman,  her  ambition  transferred 
itself  to  her  son.  She  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  Earl  of 
Lodway — a nobleman  who  had  been  considerably  overweighted 
in  the  handicap  of  life,  having  nine  children,  seats  in  three 
counties,  a huge  old  house  in  St.  James's  Square,  and  a small 
income;  his  three  estates  consisting  of  some  of  the  barren est  and 
most  unprofitable  land  in  Great  Britain.  Of  Lord  Lodway’s 
nine  children,  five  w^ere  daughters,  and  of  these  Lady  Jane  was^ 
the  eldest  and  the  handsomest.  Even  in  her  nursery  she  had  a 
very  distinct  notion  that,  for  her,  marriage  meant  promotion. 
She  used  to  play  at  being  married  at  St.  George’s,  Hanover 
Square,  and  w^ould  never  consent  to  have  the  ceremony  per- 
formed by  less  than  two  bishops;  even  though  the  part  of  one 
hierarch  had  to  be  represented  by  the  nursery  hearth  broom.  In 
due  course  Lady  Jane  Umleigh  made  her  debut  in  society  in  all 
the  bloom  and  freshness  of  her  stately  Saxon  beauty.  She  was 
admired  and  talked  about,  and  acknowledged  as  one  of  the  belles 


VIXEN. 


15 


of  that  season;  her  portrait  was  engraved  in  the  Book  of  Beauty, 
and  her  ball  programmes  were  always  filled  with  the  very  best 
names;  but  at  the  end  of  the  season  Lady  Lodway  went  back  to 
the  Yorkshire  Wolds  with  a biting  sense  of  failure  and  mortifi- 
tation.  Her  handsome  daughter  had  not  sent  her  arrow  home 
to  the  gold.  She  had  not  received  a single  offer  worth  talking 
about, 

‘ Don’t  you  think  you  could  consent  to  be  married  by  one 
bishop  and  a dean,  Jenny,  if  the  marquis  comes  to  the  scratch  in 
the  shooting  season?”  asked  Lady  Jane’s  youngest  brother, 
derisively. 

He  had  been  made  to  do  bishop  in  those  play- wed  dings  of  Lady 
Jane’s,  very  often  when  the  function  went  against  the  grain. 

The  marquis  thus  familiarly  spoken  about  was  Lord  Strishfogel, 
the  richest  nobleman  in  Ireland,  and  a great  sea-rover,  famous 
for  his  steam -yachts,  and  his  importance  generally.  He  had  ad- 
mired Lady  Jane’s  statuesque  beauty,  and  had  been  more  partic- 
ular in  his  attentions  than  the  rest  of  her  satellites,  who,  for  the 
most  part,  merely  worshiped  her  because  it  was  the  right  thing 
to  do.  Lord  Strishfogel  liad  promised  to  come  to  Heron’s  Nest, 
Lord  Lod  way’s  place  in  the  Wolds,  for  the  pheasant-shooting; 
but,  instead  of  keeping  his  promise,  went  off  to  the  Golden  Horn, 
to  race  his  yacht  against  the  vessel  of  a great  Turkish  official. 
This  was  Lady  Jane  Umleigh’s  first  disappointment.  She  had 
liked  Lord  Strishfogel  just  well  enough  to  fancy  herself  deeply 
in  love  with  him,  and  she  was  unconscious  of  the  influence  his 
rank  and  v/ealth  had  exercised  upon  her  feelings.  She  had 
thought  of  herself  so  often  as  the  Marchioness  of  Strishfogel,  had 
so  completely  projected  her  mind  into  that  brilliant  future,  that 
to  come  down  to  her  maiden  position  again  from  that  vivid 
dream  of  conquest  and  gratified  ambition  was  as  sharp  a fall  as 
if  she  had  worn  a crown  and  lost  it. 

Her  second  season  began,  and  Lord  Strishfogel  was  still  a rover; 
He  was  in  the  South  Seas  by  this  time,  writing  a book,  and  en- 
joying halcyon  days  among  the  friendly  natives,  swimming  like 
a dolphin  in  those  summery  seas,  and  indulging  in  harmless 
flirtations  with  dusky  princesses,  whose  chief  attire  was  made 
of  shells  and  flowers,  and  whose  untutored  dancing  was  more 
vigorous  than  refined.  At  the  end  of  that  second  season  Jane 
Umleigh  had  serious  thoughts  of  turning  philanthropist,  and 
taking  a ship-load  of  destitute  young  women  to  Australia.  Any- 
thing would  be  better  than  this  sense  of  a wasted  life  and  igno- 
minious failure. 

She  was  in  this  frame  of  mind  when  Mr.  Vawdrey  came  to 
Heron’s  Nest  for  the  shooting.  He  was  a commoner,  but  his 
family  w^as  one  of  the  oldest  in  Hampshire,  and  he  had  lately 
distinguished  himself  by  some  rather  clever  speeches  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  His  estate  was  worth  fifteen  thousand  a 
year,  and  he  was  altogether  a man  of  some  mark.  Above  all, 
he  was  handsome,  manly,  and  a gentleman  to  the  marrow  of 
his  bones,  and  he  was  the  first  man  who  ever  fell  over  head  and 
ears  in  love  with  Jane  Umleigh. 

The  charms  that  had  repelled  more  frivolous  admirers  at- 


16 


vixEm 


tracted  John  Yawdrey.  That  proud,  calm  beauty  of  Lady  Jane’s 
seemed  to  his  mind  the  perfection  of  womanly  grace.  A wife 
to  adore  upon  his  knees,  a wife  to  be  proud  of,  a wife  to  rule  her 
vassals  like  a queen,  and  to  lead  him,  John  Yawdrey,  on  to 
gi'eatness. 

He  was  romantic,  chivalrous,  aspiring,  and  Lady  Jane  Um- 
leigh  was  the  first  woman  he  had  met  who  embodied  the  heroine 
of  his  romantic  dreams.  He  proposed  and  was  refused,  and 
went  away  despairing.  It  would  have  been  a good  match,  un- 
doubtedly— a truth  which  Lord  and  Lady  Lodway  urged  upon 
their  daughter — but  it  would  have  been  a terrible  descent  from 
the  ideal  marriage  which  Lady  Jane  had  set  up  in  her  own  mind 
as  the  proper  prize  for  so  fair  a runner  in  life’s  race.  She  had 
imagined  herself  a marchioness,  with  a vast  territory  of  mount- 
ain, vale,  and  lake,  and  an  influence  in  the  sister  island  second 
only  to  that  of  royalty.  She  could  not  descend  all  at  once  to  be- 
hold herself  the  wife  of  a plain  country  gentleman,  whose 
proudest  privilege  it  was  to  write  M.P.  after  his  name. 

The  earl  and  countess  were  urgent,  for  they  had  abother 
daughter  ready  for  the  matrimonial  market,  and  were  inclined 
to  regard  Lady  Jane  as  an ‘‘old  shop-keeper;”  but  they  knew 
their  eldest  daughter’s  temper,  and  did  not  press  the  matter  too 
warmly. 

Another  season — Lady  Jane’s  fourth  and  Lady  Sophia’s  first — 
began  and  ended.  Lady  Sophia  was  piquant  and  witty,  wnth  a 
snub-nose  and  a playful  disposition.  She  was  a first-rate  horse- 
woman, an  exquisite  waltzer,  good  at  croquet,  archery,  billiards, 
and  all  games  requiring  accuracy  of  eye  and  aim,  and  Lady 
Sophia  brought  down  her  bird  in  a single  season.  She  went 
home  to  Heron’s  Nest  a duchess  in  embryo.  Tlie  Duke  of 
Dovedale,  a bulky,  middle-aged  nobleman,  with  a passion  for 
field-sports  and  high  farming,  had  seen  Lady  Sophia  riding  a 
dangerous  horse  in  Eotten  Kow,  and  had  been  so  charmed  by 
her  management  of  the  brute  as  to  become  from  that  hour  her 
slave.  A pretty  girl,  witli  such  a seat  in  her  saddle  and  such  a 
light  hand  for  a horse’s  mouth,  was  the  next  best  thing  to  a god- 
dess. Before  the  season  was  over  the  duke  had  proposed,  and 
been  graciously  accepted  by  the  young  lady,  who  felt  an  inward 
glow  of  pride  at  having  done  so  much  better  than  the  family 
beauty. 

“ Can  I ever  forget  how  that  girl  Jane  has  snubbed  me  ?”  said 
Lady  Sophia  to  her  favorite  brother.  “ And  to  think  that  I 
shall  be  sitting  in  ermine  robes  in  the  House  of  Lords,  while  she 
is  peeping  through  that  nasty  iron  fretwork  to  catch  a gliuipse 
of  the  top  of  her  husband’s  head  in  the  House  of  Commons!” 

This  splendid  engagement  of  Lady  Sophia’s  turned  the  tide 
for  the  faithful  John  Yawdrey.  Lady  Jane  met  b'er  rejected 
lover  at  Trouville,  and  was  so  gracious  to  him  that  he  ventured 
to  renew  his  suit,  and,  to  his  delighted  surprise,  was  accepted. 
Any  thing  was  better  than  standing  out  in  the  cold  while  the 
ducal  engagement  was  absorbing  everybody’s  thoughts  and  con- 
versation. Lady  Sophia  had  boasted,  in  that  playful  way  of 
hers,  of  having  her  beauty -sister  for  chief  bride-maid,  and  the 


VIXEN. 


17 


beautj-sister  had  made  up  her  mind  that  this  thing  should  not 
be.  Perhaps  she  would  have  married  a worse  man  than  John 
Vawdrev  to  escape  such  infamy. 

And  John  Vavvdrey  was  by  no  means  disagreeable  to  her:  nay, 
it  had  been  pride,  and  not  any  disinclination  for  the  man  himself, 
that  had  bidden  her  reject  him.  He  was  clever,  distinguished, 
and  he  loved  her  with  a romantic  devotion  which  flattered  and 
pleased  her.  Yes,  she  would  marry  Jolm  Vawdrey. 

Everybody  was  delighted  at  tliis  concession,  the  lady's 
parents  and  belongings  most  especially  so.  Here  were  two 
daughters  disposed  of;  and  if  the  beauty  had  made  the  inferior 
match,  it  was  only  one  of  those  caprices  of  fortune  that  are 
more  to  be  expected  than  the  common  order  of  things. 

So  there  was  a double  marriage  the  follovdng  spring  at  St. 
George’s,  and  Lady  Jane’s  childish  desire  was  gratified.  There 
were  two  bishops  at  the  ceremony.  True  that  one  was  only 
colonial,  and  hardly  ranked  higher  than  the  nursery  hearth 
brush. 

Fate  was  not  altogether  unkind  to  Lady  Jane.  Her  humble 
marriage  was  much  happier  than  her  sister’s  loftier  union.  The 
duke,  who  had  been  so  good-natured  as  a lover,  proved  stupid 
and  somewhat  tiresome  as  a husband.  He  gave  his  mind  to 
hunting  and  farming,  and  cared  for  nothing  else.  Sophia, 
Duchess  of  Dovedale,  had  seven  country  seats,  and  no  home. 
Her  children  were  puny  and  feeble.  They  sickened  in  the  feu- 
dal Scotch  castle;  they  languished  in  the  Buckinghamshire 
Eden — a white  freestone  palace  set  among  the  woods  that  over- 
hang the  valley  of  the  Thames.  No  breezes  that  blow  could 
waft  strength  or  vitality  to  those  feeble  lungs.  At  thirty,  the 
Duchess  of  Dovedale  had  lost  all  her  ba>bies  save  one  frail  sap- 
ling, a girl  of  two  years  old,  who  promised  to  have  a somewliat 
better  constitution  than  her  perished  brothers  and  sisters.  On 
this  small  paragon  the  duchess  concetrated  her  cares  and  hopes. 
She  gave  up  hunting — much  to  the  disgust  of  that  Nimrod  her 
husband — in  order  to  superintend  her  nursery.  From  the  most 
pleasure-loving  of  matrons  she  became  the  most  domestic.  Lady 
Mabel  Ashbourne  was  to  grow  up  the  perfection  of  health,  wis- 
dom, and  beauty  under  the  mother’s  loving  care.  She  would 
have  a great  fortune,  for  there  was  a considerable  portion  of  the 
duke’s  property  which  he  was  free  to  bequeath  to  his  daughter. 
He  had  coal-pits  in  the  North,  and  a tin  mine  in  the  West.  He 
liad  a house  at  Kensington  which  he  had  built  for  himself,  a 
model  Queen  Anne  mansion,  with  every  article  of  furniture 
made  on  the  strictest  aBstbetic  principles,  and  not  an  anachro- 
nism from  the  garrets  to  the  cellars.  The  Scottish  castle  and  the 
Buckinghamshire  paradise  would  go  with  the  title;  but  the  duke, 
delighted  with  the  easy-going  sport  of  the  New  Forest,  had 
bought  six  hundred  acres  between  Stony  Cross  and  Romsey,  and 
had  made  for  himself  an  archetypal  home-farm,  and  had  built 
himself  a hunting-box,  with  stables  and  kennels  of  the  most  per- 
fect kind;  and  this  estate,  with  the  Queen  Anne  house  and 
the  pits,  and  the  mine,  was  his  very  own,  to  dispose  of  as  he 
pleased. 


18 


VIXEN. 


Lady  Jane’s  marriage  had  proved  happy.  Her  husband,  al- 
ways egged  on  by  her  ambitious  promptings,  had  made  himself 
an  important  figure  in  the  senate,  and  had  been  on  the  eve  of  en- 
tering the  cabinet  as  Colonial  Secretary,  when  death  cut  short 
his  career.  A hard  winter  and  a slnarp  attack  of  bronchitis  nip- 
ped the  aspiring  senator  in  the  bud. 

Lady  Jane  was  as  nearly  broken-hearted  as  so  cold  a woman 
could  be.  She  had  loved  her  husband  better  than  anything  in 
this  life,  except  herself.  He  left  her  with  one  son  and  a hand- 
some jointure,  with  the  full  possession  of  Briarwood  until  her 
son’s  majority.  Upon  that  only  child  Lady  Jane  lavished  all 
her  care,  but  did  not  squander  the  wealth  of  her  affection.  Per- 
haps her  capacity  for  loving  had  died  with  her  husband.  She 
had  been  proud  and  fond  of  him,  but  she  was  not  proud  of  the 
little  boy  in  velvet  knickerbockers,  whose  good  looks  were  his 
only  merit,  and  who  was  continually  being  guilty  of  some  new 
piece  of  mischief;  laming  ponies,  smashing  orchids,  glass,  china, 
and  geueraJly  disturbing  the  perfect  order  which  was  Briar- 
wood’s  first  law. 

When  the  boy  was  old  enough  to  go  to  Eton,  he  seemed  still 
more  remote  from  his  mother’s  love  and  sympathy.  He  was 
passionately  fond  of  field-sports,  and  those  Lady  Jane  Vawdrey 
detested.  He  was  backward  in  all  his  studies,  despite  the  careful 
coaching  he  had  received  from  the  mild  Anglican  curate  of  Briar- 
wood  village.  He  was  intensely  pugilistic,  and  rarely  came 
home  for  the  holidays  without  bringing  a black  eye  or  a swollen 
nose  as  the  result  of  his  latest  fight.  He  spent  a good  deal  of 
money,  and  in  a manner  that  to  his  mother’s  calm  sense  ap- 
peared simply  idiotic.  His  hands  were  always  grubby,  his  nails 
wore  almost  perpetual  mourning,  his  boots  were  an  outrage 
upon  good  taste,  and  he  always  left  a tiack  of  muddy  foot- 
marks behind  bum  along  the  crimson-carpeted  corridors.  What 
could  any  mother  do  for  such  a boy,  except  tolerate  him?  Love 
was  out  of  the  question.  How  could  a delicate,  high-bred  woman, 
soft- handed,  velvet-robed,  care  to  have  such  a lad  about  her;  a 
boy  who  smelt  of  stables  and  wore  hob-nailed  boots,  whose 
pockets  were  always  sticky  with  toffee,  and  his  handkerchiefs  a 
disgrace  to  humanity;  who  gave  his  profoundest  thoughts  to, 
pigeon- fancying,  and  his  warmest  affections  to  ratting  terriers? 

But  while  all  these  habits  made  the  lad  abominable  in  the  ej^es 
of  his  mother,  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Dovedale  admired  the 
young  Hercules  with  a fond  and  envious  admiration.  The  duke 
would  have  given  coal-pits  and  tin  mines,  all  the  disposable 
property  he  held,  and  deemed  it  but  a small  price  for  such  a son. 
Tlie  duchess  thought  of  her  feeble  boy-babies  who  had  been 
whooping-coughed  or  scarlet-fevered  out  of  the  world,  and 
sighed,  and  loved  her  nephew  better  than  ever  his  mother  had 
loved  him  since  his  babyhood.  When  the  Dovedales  were  at 
their  place  in  the  forest,  Koderick  almost  lived  with  them,  or,  at 
any  rate,  divided  his  time  between  Ashbourne  Park  and  the 
Abbey  House,  and  sp^nt  as  little  of  his  life  at  home  as  he  could. 
He  patronized  Lady  Mabel,  who  was  his  junior  by  five  years, 
rode  her  thorough-bred  pony  for  her  under  the  pretense  of  im«^ 


VIXEN. 


19 


proving  its  manners,  until  ho  took  a lieader  with  it  into  a bog, 
out  of  which  pony  and  boy  rolled  and  struggled  indiscriminately, 
boy  none  the  worse,  pony  lamed  for  life.  He  played  billiards 
with  the  duke,  and  told  the  duchess  all  his  school  adventures, 
practical  jokes,  fights,  apple-pie  beds,  surreptitious  fried  sausages, 
and  other  misdemeanors. 

Out  of  this  friendship  arose  a brilliant  vision  which  reconciled 
Lady  Jane  Vawdrey  to  her  son’s  preference  for  his  aunt’s  house 
and  his  aunt’s  society.  Why  should  he  not  marry  Mabel  by  and 
by,  and  unite  the  two  estates  of  Ashbourne  and  Briarwood,  and 
become  owner  of  the  pits  and  the  mine,  and  distinguish  himself 
in  the  senate,  and  be  created  a peer?  As  the  husband  of  Lady 
Mabel  Ashbourne  he  would  be  rich  enough  to  command  a peer- 
age almost  as  a right,  but  his  mother  would  have  had  him  de- 
serve it.  With  this  idea  Lady  Jane  urged  on  her  son’s  educa^ 
tion.  All  his  Hampshire  friends  called  him  clever,  but  he  won 
no  laurels  at  school.  Lady  Jane  sent  for  grinders  and  had  the 
boy  ground,  but  all  the  grinding  could  not  grind  a love  of  classics 
or  metaph^’sics  into  this  free  son  of  the  forest.  He  went  to  Ox- 
ford, and  got  himself  plowed  for  his  Little  Go  with  a wonderful 
facility.  For  politics  he  cared  not  a jot,  but  he  could  drive  tan- 
dem better  than  any  other  under- graduate  of  his  year.  He 
never  spoke  at  the  Union,  but  be  pulled  stroke  in  the  ’Varsity 
boat.  He  was  famous  for  his  biceps,  his  good  nature,  and  his 
good  looks,  but  so  far  he  had  distinguished  himself  for  nothing 
else;  and  to  this  stage  of  non-performance  had  he  come  when 
the  reader  first  beheld  him. 

It  was  only  half  past  nine  when  the  brougham  drove  up  to  the 
pillared  porch  at  Briarwood.  The  lighted  drawing-room  windows 
shone  out  upon  the  autumn  dark — a row  of  five  tall  French  case- 
ments— and  the  sounds  of  a piano  caught  Eoderick’s  ear  as  he 
tossed  the  end  of  his  cigar  in  the  shrubbery  and  mounted  the 
wide  stone  door-steps. 

“At  it  again,”  muttered  Eorie  with  a shrug  of  disgust,  as  he 
entered  the  hall,  and  heard,  through  the  half -open  drawing-room 
door,  an  interlacement  of  pearly  runs— for,  at  this  stage  of  his 
existence,  Eorie  had  no  appreciation  of  brilliant  pianoforte-play- 
ing. The  music  he  liked  best  was  of  the  sim^fiest,  most  inartiS- 
cial  order. 

“ Are  the  duke  and  duchess  here  ?”  he  asked  the  butler. 

“ Her  grace  and  Lady  Mabel  is  here,  sir;  not  the  dook.” 

“ I suppose  I must  dress  before  I face  the  quality,”  muttered 
Eorie,  sulkily,  and  he  went  leaping  up  stairs — three  steps  at  a 
time — to  exchange  his  brown  shooting  clothes  and  leather  gaiters 
for  that  dress  suit  of  his  V7hieh  was  continually  getting  too 
small  for  him.  Eorie  detested  himself  in  a dress  suit  and  a white 
tie. 

“You  beast,”  he  cried,  addressing  his  reflection  in  the  tall 
glass  door  of  his  armoire,  “ you  are  the  image  of  a waiter  at  the 
Clarendon.” 

The  Briarwood  drawing-room  looked  a great  deal  too  vast  and 
too  lofty  for  the  three  delicately  made  women  who  were  occupy- 
ing it  this  evening.  It  was  a finely  proportioned  room,  and  its 


20 


riXEK 


amber  satin  bangings  made  a pleasing  background  for  the  white 
and  gold  furniture.  White,  gold,  and  amber  made  up  the  prevail- 
ing tone  of  color.  Clusters  of  wax  lights  against  the  walls  and  a 
crystal  chandelier  with  many  candles  filled  the  room  with  a soft 
radiance.  It  was  a room  without  shadow.  There  were  no  re- 
cesses, no  deep-set  windows  or  doors.  All  was  coldly  bright, 
faultlessly  elegant.  Eorie  detested  his  mother’s  drawing-room 
almost  as  much  as  he  detested  himself  in  a dress-coat  that  was 
too  short  in  the  sleeves. 

The  matrons  were  seated  on  each  side  of  the  shining  gold  and 
steel  fire-place,  before  which  there  stretched  an  island  of  silky 
white  fur.  Lady  Jane  Yawdrey’s  younger  sister  was  a stout, 
comfortable-looking  woman  in  gray  silk,  who  hardly  realized 
one’s  preconceived  notion  of  a duchess.  Lady  Jane  herself  had 
dignity  enough  for  the  higliest  rank  in  the  Almanoch  de  Gotha. 
She  wore  dark  green  velvet  and  old  rose-point,  and  looked  like 
a portrait  of  an  Austrian  princess  by  Velasquez.  Years  had  not 
impaired  the  purity  of  her  blonde  complexion.  Her  aquiline 
nose,  thin  lips,  small,  firm  chin,  were  the  features  of  one  born 
to  rule.  Her  light  brown  hair  showed  no  streak  of  gray.  An 
admirable  woman,  no  doubt,  for  anybody  else’s  mother,  asRorie 
so  often  said  to  himself. 

The  young  lady  was  still  sitting  at  the  piano,  remote  from,  the 
two  elders,  her  slim  white  fingers  running  in  and  out  and  to  and 
fro  in  those  wondrous  intricacies  and  involutions  which  distin- 
guish modem  classical  music.  Rorie  hated  all  that  running 
about  the  piano  to  no  purpose,  and  could  not  perceive  his  cousin’s 
merit  in  having  devoted  three  or  four  hours  of  her  life  daily  for 
the  last  seven  years  to  the  accomplishment  of  this  harmonious 
meandering.  She  left  off  playing,  and  held  out  her  small  white 
hand  to  him  as  he  came  to  the  piano  after  shaking  hands  with 
his  aunt. 

What  was  she  like,  this  paragon  formed  by  a mother’s  wor- 
shiping love  and  ceaseless  care,  this  one  last  pearl  in  the  crown 
of  domestic  life,  this  child  of  so  many  prayers  and  hopes  and 
fears  and  deep  pathetic  rejoicings? 

She  was  very  fair  to  look  upon — complete  and  beautiful  as  a 
pearl — with  that  outward  purity,  that  perfect  delicacy  of  tint 
and  harmony  of  detail,  which  is  in  itself  a charm.  Study  her 
as  captiously  as  you  would,  you  could  find  no  flaw  in  this  jewel. 
The  small,  regular  features  were  so  delicately  chiseled,  the  fair, 
fine  skin  was  so  transparent,  the  fragile  figure  so  exquisitely 
molded,  the  ivory  hand  and  arm  so  perfect — no,  you  could  dis- 
cover no  bad  drawing  or  crude  coloring  in  this  human  picture. 
She  lifted  her  clear  blue  eyes  to  Rorie’s  face,  and  smiled  at  him 
in  gentle  welcome;  and  though  he  felt  intensely  cross  at  having 
been  summoned  home  like  a school-boy,  he  could  not  refuse  her 
a responsive  smile,  or  a gentle  pressure  of  the  taper  fingers. 

“ And  so  you  have  been  dining  with  those  horrid  people!”  she 
exclaimed,  with  an  air  of  playful  reproach,  “and  on  your  last 
night  in  Hampshire — quite  too  unkind  to  Aunt  Jane.” 

“I  don’t  know  whom  you  mean  by  horrid  people,  Mabel,”  an- 


VIXEN. 


21 


swered  Rorie,  chilled  back  into  sulkiness  all  at  once;  “the  peo- 
ple I was  with  are  all  that  is  good  and  pleasant.” 

“ Then  you’ve  not  been  at  ohe  Tempests’,  after  all 

“ I have  been  at  the  Tempests’.  What  have  you  to  say  against 
the  Tempests  ?” 

“Oh,  I have  nothing  to  say  against  them,”  said  Lady  Mabel, 
shrugging  her  pretty  shoulders  in  her  fawn-colored  silk  gown, 
“ There  are  some  things  that  do  not  require  saying.” 

“Mr.  Tempest  is  the  best  and  kindest  of  men;  his  wife  is— = 
well,  a nonentity,  perhaps,  but  not  a disagreeable  one;  and  his 
daughter ” 

Here  Rorie  came  to  a sudden  stop,  which  Lady  Mabel  accent- 
uated with  a silvery  little  laugh. 

“His  daughter  is  charming,”  she  cried,  when  she  had  done 
laughing;  “ red  hair,  and  a green  habit  with  brass  buttons,  a 
yellow  waistcoat  like  her  papa’s,  and  a rose  in  her  button-hole. 
How  I should  like  to  see  her  in  Rotten  Row.” 

“I’ll  warrant  there  wouldn’t  be  a better  horse-woman  or  a 
prettier  girl  there,  let  you  see  her  when  you  may,”  cried  Rorie, 
scarlet  with  indignation. 

His  mother  looked  daggers.  His  cousin  gave  another  silvery 
laugh,  clear  as  those  pearly  treble  runs  upon  thcErard;  but  that 
p'/etty  artificial  laugh  Jiad  a ring  which  betrayed  her  mortifica- 
tion. 

“Rorie  is  thorough,”  she  said;  “when  he  likes  people,  he 
thinks  them  perfect.  You  do  think  that  little  red-haired  girl 
quite  perfection,  now  don't  you,  Rorie  V”  pursupd  Lady  Mabel, 
sitting  down  before  the  piano  again,  and  touching  the  notes 
silently  as  she  seemed  to  admire  the  slender  diamond  hoops  upon 
her  white  fingers — old-fashioned  rings  that  had  belon^d  to  a 
patrician  great-grandmother.  “ You  think  her  quite  a model 
young  lady,  though  they  say  she  can  hardly  read,  and  makes  her 
mark — hke  William  the  Conqueror — instead  of  signing  her 
name,  and  srends  her  life  in  the  stables,  and  occasionally,  when 
the  fox  gets  back  to  earth — swears.” 

“ I don’t  know  who  they  may  be,”  cried  Roderick,  savagely, 
“ but  they  say  a pack  of  lies.  Violet  Tempest  is  as  well  educated 
as — any  girl  need  be.  Ail  girls  can’t  be  paragons,  or,  if  they 
could,  this  earth  would  be  intolerable  for  the  rest  of  htimanity. 
Lord  deliver  us  from  a world  overrun  with  paragons!  Violet 
Tempest  is  little  more  than  a child,  a spoiled  child,  if  you  like, 
but  she  has  a heart  of  gold,  and  a firmer  grip  on  her  saddle  than 
any  other  woman  in  Hampshire.” 

Roderick  had  turned  from  scarlet  to  pale  by  the  time  he  fin- 
ished this  speech.  His  mother  had  paled  at  the  first  mention  of 
poor  Vixen.  That  young  lady’s  name  acted  upon  Lady  Jane’s 
feelings  Yery  much  as  a red  rag  acts  on  a bull. 

“I  think,  after  keeping  you  away  from  your  mother  on  the 
last  night  of  your  vacation,  Mr.  Tempest  might  at  least  have 
had  the  good  taste  to  let  you  come  home  sober,”  said  Lady  Jane, 
with  suppressed  rage. 

“ I drank  a couple  of  glasses  of  still  hock  at  dinner,  and  not 
a drop  of  anything  else  from  the  time  I entered  the  Abbey  House 


22 


VIXEN. 


till  I left  it;  and  I don  t think,  considering  how  IVe  seasoned 
myself  with  Bass  at  Oxford,  that  two  glasses  of  Rudesheimer 
would  floor  me,*’  explained  Rorie,  with  recovered  calmness. 

“ Oh,  but  you  were  drinking  deep  of  a more  intoxicating  nec- 
tar,” cried  Lady  Mabel,  with  that  provokiogly  distinct  utterance 
of  hers.  She  had  been  taught  to  speak  as  carefully  as  girls  of 
inferior  rank  are  taught  to  play  Beethoven — every  syllable 
studied,  every  tone  trained  and  ripened  to  the  right  quality. 
“You  were  with  Violet  Tempest.” 

“How  you  children  quarrel!”  exclaimed  the  duchess;  “you 
could  hardly  be  worse  if  you  were  lovers.  Come  here,  Rorie, 
and  tell  me  all' that  has  happened  to  you  since  we  saw  you  at 
Lord’s  in  July.  Never  mind  these  Tempest  people.  They  are  of 
the  smallest  possible  importance.  Of  course  Rorie  must  have 
somebody  to  amuse  himself  with  while  we  are  away.” 

“And  now  we  are  come  back,  he  is  off  to  Oxford,”  said  Ma- 
bel, with  an  aggrieved  air. 

“ You  shouldn’t  have  stayed  so  long  in  Switzerland,  then,”  re- 
torted Rorie. 

“Oh,  but  it  was  my  first  visit,  and  everything  is  so  lovely. 
After  all  the  Swiss  landscapes  I have  done  in  clialk  and  pencil 
and  water-colors,  I was  astonished  to  find  what  a stranger  I was 
to  the  scenery.  I blushed  when  I remembered  those  dreadful 
landscapes  of  mine.  I was  ashamed  to  look  at  Mont  Blanc.  I 
felt  as  if  the  Matterhorn  would  fall  and  crush  me.” 

“ I think  I shall  do  Switzerland  next  long,”  said  Rorie,  pa- 
tronizingly, as  if  it  would  be  a good  thing  for  Switzerland. 

“You  might  have  come  this  year  while  we  were  there,”  said 
Lady  Mabel. 

“No,  I mightn’t.  I’ve  been  grinding.  If  you  knew  what  a 
dose  of  Aristotle  I’ve  had,  you’d  pity  me.  That’s  where  you 
girls  have  the  best  of  it.  You  learn  two  or  three  modern  lan- 
guages, to  meander  up  and  down  the  piano,  and  spoil  Bristol- 
board,  or  Whatman’s  hot-pressed  imperial,  and  then  you  call 
yourselves  educated;  while  we  have  to  go  back  to  the  beginning 
of  civilization,  and  find  out  what  a lot  of  old  Greek  duffers  were 
driving  at  when  they  sat  in  the  sunshine  and  prosed  like  old 
boots.” 

Lady  Mabel  looked  at  him  with  a serene  smile. 

“ Would  you  be  surprised  to  hear  that  I know  a little  Greek,” 
she  said,  “ just  enough  to  struggle  through  the  Socratic  dialogues 
with  the  aid  of  my  master?” 

Roderick  started  as  if  he  had  been  stung. 

“What  a shame!’'  he  cried.  “ Aunt  Sophia,  what  do  you  mean 
by  making  a Lady  Jane  Grey  or  an  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 
of  her?” 

“A  wmman  who  has  to  occupy  a leading  position  can  hardly 
know  too  much,”  answered  the  duchess,  sententiously. 

“ Ah,  to  be  sure,  Mabel  will  marry  some  diplomatic  swell, 
and  be  entertaining  ambassadors  by  and  by.  And  when  some 
modern  Greek  envoy  comes  simpering  up  to  her  with  a remark 
about  the  weather,  it  will  be  an  advantage  to  know  Plato.  I un- 
derstand. Wheels  within  wheels.” 


VIXEN. 


23 


‘‘  The  Duchess  of  Dovetail’s  carriage,”  announced  the  butler, 
rolling  out  the  syllables  as  if  it  were  a personal  gratification  to 
announce  them, 

Mabel  rose  at  once  from  the  piano,  and  came  to  say  good- night 
to  her  aunt. 

“ My  dear  child,  it’s  quite  early,”  said  Lady  Jane;  ‘‘  Eoderick’s 
last  night,  too.  And  your  mamma  is  in  no  hurry.” 

Mabel  looked  at  Roderick,  but  tliat  young  gentleman  was  air^ 
ing  himself  on  the  heartli*rug,  and  looking  absently  up  at  the 
ceiling.  It  evidently  signified  very  little  to  him  w-hether  his 
aunt  and  cousin  went  or  stayed. 

“ You  know  you  told  papa  you  would  be  home  quite  early,” 
said  Lady  Mabel,  and  the  duchess  rose  immediately. 

She  had  a way  of  yielding  to  her  only  daughter  which  her 
stronger-minded  sister  highly  disapproved  of.  The  first  duty  of 
a mother,  in  Lady  Jane’s  opinion,  was  to  rule  her  child;  the  sec- 
ond, to  love  it.  The  idea  was,  no  doubt,  correct  in  the  abstract, 
but  the  practice  was  not  succeeding  too  well  with  Roderick, 

“ Good-night  and  good-bye,”  said  Lady  Mabel,  w^hen  the 
maid  liad  brought  her  wraps,  andRorie  had  put  them  on. 

“ Not  good-bye,”  said  the  good-natured  duchess;  “ Rorie  must 
come  to  breakfast  to-morrow,  and  see  the  duke.  He  was  too 
tired  to  come  out  to-night,  but  I know  he  wants  to  see  you.” 

“Thanks,  I’ll  be  there,”  answered  Rorie,  and  he  escorted  the 
ladies  to  their  carriage,  but  not  'another  word  did  Mabel  speak 
till  the  brougham  had  driven  away  from  Briarwood. 

“ What  a hoiTid  young  man  Roderick  has  grown,  mamma  I”  she 
remarked,  decisively. 

“ My  love,  1 never  saw  him  look  handsomer.” 

“I  don’t  mean  his  looks.  Good  looks  in  a man  are  a superflu- 
ity. But  his  manners — I never  saw  anything  so  under-bred. 
Those  Tempest  people  are  spoiling  him.” 

“ Roderick,”  said  Lady  Jane,  just  as  Rorie  was  contemplat- 
ing an  escape  to  the  billiard-room  and  his  cigar,  “ I want  a lit- 
tle serious  talk  with  you.” 

Rorie  shivered  in  his  shoes.  He  knew  too  well  what  his 
mother’s  serious  talk  meant.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a 
movement  that  indicated  a dormant  resistance,  and  went  quietly 
into  the  drawing-room. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

ROKIE  COMES  OF  AGE. 

“ Bless  my  soul,”  cried  the  squire;  “ it’s  a vixen  after  all.” 

This  is  liow  Squire  Tempest  greeted  tlie  family  doctor's  an- 
nouncement of  the  first  baby’s  sex.  He  had  been  particularly 
anxious  for  a son  to  inherit  the  Abbey  House  estate,  maintain 
the  Abbey  hounds,  and  in  a general  way  sustain  the  pride  and 
glory  of  the  family  name;  and,  behold  ! Providence  had  given 
him  a daughter. 

“ The  deuce  is  in  it,”  ejaculated  the  squire;  to  think  that  it 
should  be  a vixen!” 


0 


24  VIXEN. 

This  is  how  Violet  Tempest  came  by  her  curious  pet  name. 
Before  she  was  short  coated  she  had  contrived  to  exhibit  a very 
spirited  and  even  vixenish  temper,  and  the  family  doctor,  who 
loved  a small  joke,  used  to  ask  after  Miss  Vixen  when  he  paid 
his  professional  visits.  As  she  grew  older  her  tawny  hair  was 
not  unlike  a red  foK’s  brush  in  its  bright  golden-brown  hue, 
and  her  temper  proved  decidedly  vixenish. 

“ I wish  you  wouldn’t  call  Violet  by  that  dreadful  nickname, 
dear,”  Mrs.  Tempest  remonstrated,  mildly. 

“ My  darling,  it  suits  her  to  a nicety,”  replied  the  squire,  and 
he  took  his  own  way  in  this,  as  in  most  things. 

The  earth  rolled  round,  and  tlie  revolving  years  brought  no 
second  baby  to  tlte  Abbey  House.  Every  year  made  the  squire 
fonder  of  his  little  golden-haired  girl.  He  put  her  on  a soft 
white  ball  of  a pony  as  soon  as  she  could  sit  up  straight,  and  took 
her  about  the  forest  with  a leading-rein.  No  one  else  was  allow- 
ed to  teach  Vixen  to  ride.  Young  as  she  was,  she  soon  learned 
to  do  without  the  leading-rein,  and  the  soft  little  white  pony 
was  discarded  as  too  tame.  Before  her  eleventh  birthday  she 
rode  to  hounds,  and  saw  the  stag  at  bay  on  the  wild  heathery 
downs  above  the  wooded  valleys.  She  was  a creature  full  of  life 
and  courage  and  generous  impulses  and  spontaneous  leanings  to 
all  good  thoughts;  but  she  was  a spoiled  child,  liked  her  own 
way,  and  had  no  idea  of  being  guided  by  anybody  else’s  will — 
unless  it  had  been  her  father  s,  and  he  never  thwarted  her. 

Him  she  adored  with  the  fondest  love  that  child  ever  gave  to 
parent — a blind,  worshiping  love,  that  saw  in  him  the  perfec- 
tion of  manliood,  the  beginning  and  end  of  earthly  good.  If 
any  one  had  dared  to  say  in  Vixen’s  hearing  that  her  father 
could,  by  any  possible  combination  of  circumstances,  do  v/rong, 
act  unjustly  or  ungenerously,  it  would  have  been  better  for  that 
man  to  have  come  to  handy-grips  wdth  a tiger-cat  than  with 
Violet  Tempest.  Her  reverence  for  her  father  and  belief  in  him 
were  boundless. 

There  never,  perhaps,  was  a happier  childhood  than  Violet’s. 
She  was  daughter  and  heiress  to  one  of  the  most  popular  men  in 
that  part  of  the  country,  and  everybody  loved  her.  She  was  not 
much  given  to  visiting  in  a methodical  way  among  the  poor,  and 
it  had  never  entered  into  her  young  mind  tha,t  it  was  lier  mission 
to  teach  older  people  the  vmy  to  heaven;  but  if  there  was  trouble 
in  the  village,  a eick  child,  a husband  in  prison  for  rabbit-snar- 
ing, a dead  baby,  a little  boy’s  pinafore  set  fire  to.  Vixen  and  her 
pony  w'ere  always  to  the  fore;  and  it  v/as  an  axiom  in  the  vil- 
lage that,  where  Miss  Tempest  did  “take,”  it  was  very  good  for 
those  she  took  to.  Violet  never  withdrew  her  hand  when  she 
had  put  it  to  the  plough.  If  she  made  a promise,  she  always 
kept  it.  However  long  the  sickness,  however  dire  the  poverty, 
Vixen’s  patience  and  benevolence  lasted  to  the  end. 

The  famous  princess  iu  the  story,  whose  sleep  was  broken  be- 
cause there  was  a pea  under  her  seven  feather-beds,  had  scarcely 
a more  untroubled  life  than  Vixen.  She  had  her  own  way  in 
everything.  She  did  exactiy  what  she  liked  with  her  comfort- 
able, middle-aged  governess,  Miss  M’Croke,  learned  what  she 


VIXEN. 


S5 

pleased,  and  left  what  she  disliked  unlearned.  She  had  the  pret- 
tiest ponies  in  Hampshire  to  ride,  the  prettiest  dresses  to  wear. 
Her  mother  was  not  a woman  to  bestow  mental  culture  upon 
her  only  child,  but  she  racked  her  small  brain  to  devise  becom- 
ing costumes  for  Violet.  The  colored  stockings  which  harmon- 
ized best  with  each  particular  gown,  the  neat  little  buckled 
shoes,  the  fascinating  Hessian  boots — nothing  was  too  beautiful 
or  too  costly  for  Violet.  She  was  the  one  thing  her  parents  pos- 
sessed in  the  world,  and  they  lavished  much  love  upon  her  ; but 
it  never  occurred  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tempest,  as  it  had  occurred  to 
the  Duchess  of  Dovedale,  to  make  their  daughter  a paragon. 

In  this  perpetual  sunshine  Violet  grew  up,  fair  as  most  things 
are  that  grow  in  the  sunshine.  She  loved  her  father  with  all  her 
heart  and  mind  and  soul ; she  loved  her  mother  with  a lesser 
love;  she  had  a tolerant  affection  for  Miss  M’Croke;  she  loved  her 
ponies  and  the  dog  Argus;  she  loved  the  hounds  in  the  kennels; 
she  loved  every  honest  familiar  face  of  nurse,  servant,  and 
stableman,  gardener,  keeper,  and  huntsman,  that  had  looked 
upon  her  with  friendly,  admiring  eyes,  ever  since  she  could 
remember. 

Not  to  be  loved  and  admired  would  have  been  the  strangest 
thing  to  Violet.  She  would  hardly  have  recognized  herself  in  an 
unappreciative  circle;  if  she  could  have  heard  Lady  Mabel  talk- 
ing about  her,  it  would  have  been  like  the  sudden  revelation  of 
an  unknown  world — a world  in  which  it  was  possible  for  people 
to  dislike  and  misjudge  her. 

This  is  one  of  the  disadvantages  of  being  reared  in  a little 
heaven  of  domestic  love.  The  outside  world  seems  so  hard  and 
bleak  and  dreary  afterward,  and  the  inhabitants  thereof  passing 
cruel. 

Roderick  Vaw’drey  Miss  Tempest  looked  upon  as  her  own  par- 
ticular property — a person  whom  she  had  the  right  to  order  about 
as  she  pleased.  Rorie  had  been  her  playfellow  and  companion 
in  his  holiday  time  for  the  last  five  years.  All  their  tastes  were 
in  common.  Tliey  had  the  same  love  for  the  brute  creation,  the 
same  wild  delight  in  rushing  madly  through  the  air  on  the  backs 
of  unreasoning  animals;  widely  different  in  their  tastes  from 
Lady  Mabel,  who  had  once  been  run  away  with  in  a pony-car- 
riage, and  loolved  ui>on  all  horses  as  incipient  murderers.  They 
had  the  same  love  of  nature,  and  the  same  indifference  to  books, 
and  all  the  state  and  ceremony  of  life. 

Vixen  was  “rising  fifteen,”  as  her  father  called  it,  and  Rorie 
was  just  five  years  her  senior.  The  squire  saw  them  gay  and 
happy  together,  without  one  serious  thought  of  what  might 
come  of  it  in  the  growth  of  years.  That  his  Vixen  could  ever 
care  for  anyone  but  her  “ old  dad,”  was  a notion  that  had  not 
yet  found  its  way  into  the  squire’s  brain.  She  seemed  to  him 
quite  as  much  his  own  property,  his  own  to  do  what  he  liked 
with,  singly  and  simply  attached  to  him,  as  his  favorite  horse 
or  his  favorite  dog.  So  there  were  no  shadowings  forth  in  the 
paternal  mind  as  to  any  growth  and  development  which  the  mut- 
ual affection  of  these  two  young  people  might  take  in  the  fut* 
ure. 


VIXEN. 


It  was  very  different  with  Lady  Jane  Yawdrey,  who  never  saw 
her  son  and  his  cousin  Mabel  together  without  telling  herself  how 
exactly  they  were  suited  to  each  other,  and  what  a nice  thing  it 
would  be  for  the  Briarwood  and  Ashbourne  estates  to  be  united 
by  their  marriage. 

Rorie  went  back  tor  college,  and  contrived  to  struggle  through 
liis  next  examinations  with  an  avoidance  of  actual  discredit; 
but  when  Christmas  came,  he  did  not  go  back  to  the  forest, 
though  Violet  had  counted  on  his  coming,  and  had  thought  that 
it  would  be  good  fun  to  have  his  help  in  the  decorations  for  the 
little  Gothic  church  in  the  valley — a pretty  little  new  church,  like 
ft  toy,  which  the  squire  had  built  and  paid  for,  and  endowed  with 
ft  perpetual  seventy  pounds  a year  out  of  his  own  pocket.  It 
Would  have  been- fun  to  see  poor  Rorie  prick  his  clumsy  fingers 
with  the  holly.  Vixen  laughed  at  his  awkwardness  in  advance, 
when  she  talked  to  Miss  M’Croke  about  him,  and  drew  upon 
himself  that  lady’s  mild  reproval. 

But  Christmas  came,  and  brought  no  Rorie.  He  had  gone  off 
to  spend  his  Christmas  at  the  Duke  of  Dovedale’s  Scotch  castle. 
Easter  came,  and  Still  no  Rorie.  He  was  at  Putney  with  the 
’Varsity  crew,  or  in  London  with  the  Dovedales,  riding  in  the 
Row,  and  forgetting  dear  old  Hampshire  and  the  last  of  the 
hunting,  for  which  he  would  have  been  just  in  time. 

Even  the  long  vacation  came  without  Rorie.  He  had  gone 
for  that  promised  tour  in  Switzerland,  at  his  mother's  instiga- 
tion, and  was  only  to  come  back  late  in  the  year  to  keep  his 
twenty-first  birthday,  which  was  to  be  honored  in  a very  sub- 
dued and  unhilarious  fashion  at  Briarwood. 

‘‘ Mamma,”  said  Violet,  at  breakfast-time  one  August  morn- 
ing, with  her  nose  scornfully  tilted,  “what  is  Mr.  Vawdrey  like 
— dark  or  fair  ?” 

“Why,  Violet,  you  can’t  have  forgotten  him?”  said  her 
mother,  with  languid  astonishment. 

“ I think  he  has  been  away  long  enough  for  me  to  forget  even 
the  color  of  his  hair,  mamma;  and  as  he  hasn’t  written  to  any- 
body, we  may  fairly  suppose  he  has  forgotten  us.” 

“ Vixen  misses  her  old  playfellow,”  said  the  squire,  busy  with 
the  demolition  of  agrouse.  “But  Rorie  is  a young  man  now, 
you  know,  dear,  and  has  work  to  do  in  the  world — duties,  my 
pet — duties.” 

“ And  is  a young  man’s  first  duty  to  forget  his  old  friends  ?” 
inquired  Vixen,  naively. 

“ My  pet,  you  can’t  expect  a lad  of  that  kind  to  write  letters. 
I am  a deuced  bad  hand  at  letter-writing  myself,  and  always 
was.  I don’t  think  a rna^n's  hand  was  ever  made  to  pinch  a pen. 
Nature  has  given  us  a broad,  strong  grasp  to  grip  a sword,  or  a 
gun.  Your  mother  writes  most  of  my  letters.  Vixen,  you 
know,  and  I shall  expect  you  to  help  her  in  a year  or  two.  Let 
me  see:  Rorie  will  be  one-and-twenty  in  October,  and  there  are 
to  be  high  jinks  at  Briarwood,  I believe;  so  there’s  something  to 
look  forward  to,  my  dear,” 

“Ed  ward  I”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tempest,  reproachfully;  “you  for- 


VIXEN.  27 

get  that  Violet  is  not  out.  She  will  not  be  sixteen  till  next 
February.” 

“ Bless  her!”  cried  the  squire,  with  a tender  look  at  his  only 
child,  “she  has  grown  up  like  a green  bay-tree.  “ But  if  this 
were  to  be  quite  a friendly  affair  at  Briar w^ood,  she  might  go 
merely ” 

“ It  will  not  be  a friendly  affair,”  said  Mrs.  Tempest;  “Lady 
Jane  never  gives  friendly  parties.  There  is  nothing  friendly  in 
her  nature,  and  I don’t  think  she  likes  us — much.  But  I dare 
say  we  shall  be  asked;  and  if  we  go,  I must  have  a new  dress,” 
added  the  gentle  lady,  with  a sigh  of  resignation.  “It  wull  be 
a rlinner,  no  doubt;  and  the  duke  and  duchess  will  be  there,  of 
course.” 

The  card  of  invitation  came  in  due  course,  three  weeks  before 
the  birthday.  It  was  to  be  a dinner,  as  Mrs.  Tempest  had 
opined.  She  wrote  off  to  her  milliner  at  once,  and  there  was  a 
passage  of  letters  and  fashion  plates  and  patterns  of  silk  to  and 
fro,  and  some  of  Mrs.  Tempest’s  finest  lace  came  out  of  the  per- 
fumed chest  in  which  she  kept  her  treasures,  and  was  sent  off  to 
Madame  Theodore. 

Poor  Vixen  beheld  these  preparations  with  an  aching  heart. 
She  did  not  care  about  dinner  parties  in  the  least,  but  she  would 
have  liked  to  be  v^^ith  Roderick  on  his  birthday.  She  would 
have  liked  it  to  have  been  a hunting  day,  and  to  have  ridden  for 
a wild  scamper  across  the  hills  with  him;  to  have  seen  the  roll- 
ing downs  of  the  Wight  blue  in  the  aistance;  to  have  felt  the 
softsoutli  wind  blowing  in  her  face,  and  to  have  ridden  by  his 
side,  neck  and  neck,  all  daylong;  and  then  to  have  gone  home 
to  the  Abbey  House  to  dinner,  to  the  snug  round  table  in  the 
library,  and  the  dogs,  and  papa  in  his  liappiest  mood,  expanding 
over  his  port  and  walnuts.  That  would  have  been  a happy 
birthday  for  all  of  them,  in  Violet’s  opinion. 

The  squire  and  his  daughter  had  plenty  of  hunting  in  this 
merry  month  of  October,  but  there  had  been  no  sign  of  Rorie 
and  his  tall  raking  chestnut  in  the  field,  nor  had  any  one  in  the 
forest  heard  of  or  seen  the  young  Oxonian. 

“I  dare  say  he  is  only  coming  borne  in  time  for  the  birthday,” 
Mrs.  Tempest  remarked,  placidly,  and  went  on  with  her  prepara- 
tions for  that  event. 

She  wanted  to  make  a strong  impression  on  the  duchess,  who 
had  not  behaved  too  well  to  her,  only  sending  her  invitations  for 
indiscriminate  afternoon  assemblies,  which  Mrs.  Tempest  had 
graciously  declined,  pleading  her  feeble  health  as  a reason  for 
not  going  to  garden  parties. 

Vixen  was  in  a peculiar  temper  during  those  three  weeks,  and 
poor  Miss  M’Croke  had  hard  work  with  her. 

“Der,  die,  das,”  cried  Vixen,  throwing  down  her  German 
grammar  in  a rage,  one  morning,  when  she  had  been  making  a 
muddle  of  the  definite  article  in  her  exerciser,  and  the  patient 
governess  had  declared  that  they  really  must  go  back  to  the  very 
beginning  of  things.  “What  stupid  people  the  Germans  are  I 
Why  can’t  they  have  one  little  word  for  everything,  as  we  have? 
T,  h,  e,  the.  Any  child  ^can  learn  that.  What  do  they  mean 


28 


VIXEN. 


by  chopping  up  their  language  into  little  bits,  like  the  pieces  in 
a puzzle  ? Why,  even  the  French  are  more  reasonable,  though 
they’re  bad  enough,  goodness  knows,  with  their  he’s  and  she’s 
— feminine  tables,  aui  masculine  beds,  AVhy  should  I be 
bothert‘d  to  learn  all  this  rubbish  ? I’m  not  going  to  be  a govern- 
ess, and  it  will  never  be  any  use  to  me.  Papa  doesn’t  know  a 
single  sentence  in  French  or  German,  and  he’s  quite  happy.” 

*‘But  if  your  papa  were  travelling  on  the  Continent.  Violet, 
he  would  find  his  ignorance  of  the  language  a great  depriva- 
tion,” 

“ No,  he  wouldn’t.  He’d  have  a courier.” 

Are  you  aware,  my  dear,  that  we  have  wasted  five  minutes 
already  in  this  discursive  conversation  ?*’  remarked  Miss  M’Croke, 
looking  at  a fat,  useful  watch,  wkich  she  w’ore  at  her  side  in  the 
good  old  fashion.  “ We  will  leave  the  grammar  for  the  present, 
and  you  can  repeat  Schiller’s  ‘ Song  of  the  Bell.’  ” 

‘•I'd  rather  say  ‘The  Dragon,’”  said  Vixen;  “there’s  more 
fire  and  life  in  it.  I do  like  Schiller,  Crokey  dear.  But  isn’t  it 
a pity  he  didn’t  write  it  in  English?” 

And  Vixen  put  her  hands  behind  her,  and  began  to  spout  the 
wonderful  story  of  the  knight  who  slew  the  dragon,  and  very 
soon  lier  eyes  kindled  and  lier  cheeks  were  aflame,  and  the 
grand  verses  were  rolled  out  rapidly,  with  a more  or  less  faulty 
pronunciation,  but  plent.y  of  life  and  vehemence.  This  exercise 
of  mind  and  memory  suited  Vix^n  a great  deal  better  than  dull 
plodding  at  the  first  principles  of  grammar,  and  the  perpetual 
der,  die,  das. 

This  day  was  the  last  of  October,  and  Poderick  Vawdrey’s 
birthday.  He  had  not  been  seen  at  the  Abbey  House  yet.  He 
had  come  back  to  Briar  wood  before  this,  no  doubt,  but  had  not 
taken  the  trouble  to  come  and  see  his  old  friends. 

“He’s  a man  now,  and  has  duties,  and  has  done  with  us,” 
thought  Vixen,  savagely. 

She  was  very  glad  that  it  was  such  a wretched  day — a hideous 
day  for  any  one’s  twenty- first  birthday,  ominous  of  all  bad 
things,  she  thought.  There  was  not  a rift  in  the  dull,  gray  sky; 
the  straight,  fine  rain  came  down  persistently,  soaking  into  the 
sodden  earth,  and  sending  up  an  odor  of  dead  leaves.  The 
smooth,  shining  laurels  in  the  shrubbery  were  the  only  things 
in  nature  that  seemed  no  worse  for  the  perpetual  down-pour. 
The  gravel  drives  were  spongy^  and  sloppy.  There  was  no  hunt- 
ing, or  Vixen  would  have  been  riding  her  pony  through  rain 
and  foul  weather,  and  would  have  been  comparatively  independ- 
ent of  the  elements.  But  to  be  at  home  all  day,  watching  the 
rain,  and  thinking  what  a horrid,  ungrateful  young  man  Rorie 
was!  That  was  dreary. 

Mrs.  Tempest  went  to  her  room  to  lie  down  directly  after 
luncheon.  She  wanted  to  keep  herself  fresh  for  the  evening. 
She  made  quite  a solemn  business  of  this  particular  dinner  party. 
At  half  past  five  precisely  Pauline  was  to  bring  her  a cup  of  tea. 
At  six  she  was  to  begin  to  dress.  This  would  give  her  an  hour 
and  a half  for  her  toilet,  as  Briarwood  was  only  half  an  hour's 
drive  from  the  Abbey  House.  So  for  the  rest  of  that  day — until 


VIXEJSr.  29 

she  burst  upon  their  astonished  view  in  her  new  dress— Mrs. 
Tempest  would  be  invisible  to  her  family. 

“What  a disgusting  birthday  I'*  cried  Vixen,  sitting  in  the  em- 
brasure of  the  hall  window,  with  Argus  at  her  side,  dog  and  girl 
looking  out  at  the  glistening  shrubbery. 

Miss  M’Croke  had  gone  to  her  room  to  write  letters,  or  Vixen 
would  have  hardly  been  allowed  to  remain  peacefully  in  such  an 
inelegant  pos  tion,  her  knees  drawn  up  to  her  chin,  her  arms  em- 
bracing her  knees,  her  back  against  the  stout  oak  shutter.  Yet 
the  gild  and  dog  made  rather  a pretty  picture,  despite  the  inele- 
gance of  Vixen’s  attitude.  The  tawny  hair,  black  velvet  frock, 
and  careless  amber  sash,  amber  stockings,  and  broad-toed  Crom- 
well shoes;  the  tawny  mastiff  curled  in  the  opposite  corner  of 
the  deep  recess;  the  old  armorial  bearings,  sending  pale  shafts  of 
party-colored  light  across  Vixen’s  young  head — a picture  full  of 
light  and  color,  framed  in  the  dark  brown  oak. 

“What  an  abominable  birthday!”  ejaculated  Vixen.  “If  it 
were  such  weather  as  this  on  my  twenty-first  birthday,  I should 
think  Nature  had  taken  a dislike  to  me.  But  I don’t  suppose 
Rorie  cares.  He  is  playing  billiards  with  a lot  of  his  friends, 
and  smoking,  and  making  a horror  of  lumself,  I dare  say,  and 
hardly  knows  whether  it  rains  or  shines.” 

Drip,  drip,  drip,  came  the  rain  on  the  glistening  leaves,  ber- 
beris  and  laurel,  bay  and  holly,  American  oaks  of  richest  red 
and  bronze,  copper  beeches,  tall  rhododendrons,  cypress  of  every 
kind,  and  behind  them  a,  dense  black  screen  of  yew.  The  late 
roses  looked  miserable.  Vixen  would  have  liked  to  have  brought 
them  in  and  put  them  by  the  hall  fire — the  good  old  hearth  vntli 
its  pile  of  blazing  logs,  before  which  Nip,  the  pointer,  was 
stretched  at  ease,  his  muscular  toes  stifi’ening  themselves  occa- 
sionally, as  if  he  was  standing  at  a bird  in  Ids  dreams. 

Vixen  went  on  watching  the  rain.  It  was  rather  a lazy  way 
of  spending  the  afternoon,  certainly,  but  Miss  Tempest  was  out 
of  humor  with  her  little  world,  and  did  not  feel  equal  to  groping 
out  the  difficulties,  the  inexorable  double  sharps  and  odious 
double  flats,  in  a waltz  of  Chopin’s.  She  watched  the  straight 
thin  rain,  and  thought  about  Rorie — chiefly  to  the  effect  that 
she  hated  him,  and  never  could  by  any  possibility  like  him 
again. 

Gradually  the  trickle  of  the  rain  from  an  overflowing  water- 
pipe  took  the  sound  of  a tune.  No  Berceuse  by  Gounod  was 
ever  more  rest-compelling.  The  full  white  lids  drooped  over  the 
big  brown  eyes,  the  little  looked  hands  loosened,  the  soft  round 
chin  fell  forward  on  the  knees;  Argus  gave  a snort  of  satisfac- 
tion, and  laid  his  heavy  head  on  the  velvet  gown,  and  girl  and 
dog  were  asleep.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  wide  old  hall  ex- 
cept the  soft  falling  of  wood  ashes,  the  gentle  breathing  of  girl 
and  dogs. 

Too  pretty  a picture,  assuredly,  to  be  lost  to  the  eye  of  man- 
kind. 

Whose  footstep  was  this  sounding  on  the  wet  gravel  half  an 
hour  later?  Too  quick  and  light  for  the  squire’s.  Who  was  ^xis 
coming  in  softly  out  of  the  rain,  all  dripping  like  a water-god  I 


VIXEN. 


1^0 

Who  was  this  whose  falcon  eye  took  in  the  picture  at  a glance, 
and  who  stole  cat-like  to  the  window,  and  bending  down  his 
dark,  wet  head,  gave  Violet’s  sleeping  lips  the  first  lover’s  kiss 
that  had  ever  saluted  them  ? 

Violet  awoke  with  a faint  shiver  of  surprise  and  joy.  Instinct 
told  her  from  whom  that  kiss  came,  though  it  was  the  first  time 
Roderick  had  kissed  her  since  he  went  to  Eaton.  The  lovely 
brown  eyes  opened  and  looked  into  the  dark  gray  ones.  The 
ruddy  brown  head  rested  on  Rorie’s  shoulder.  The  girl — half 
child,  half  woman,  and  all  loving  trustfulness — looked  up  at 
him  with  a glad  smile.  His  heart  was  stirred  with  a new  feel- 
ing as  those  softly  bright  eyes  looked  into  his.  It  was  the  early 
dawn  of  a passionate  love.  The  head  lying  on  his  breast  seemed 
to  him  the  fairest  thing  on  earth. 

“ Rorie,  how  disgracefully  you  have  behaved,  and  how 
utterly  I detest  you!'’  exclaimed  Vixen,  giving  him  a vigorous 
push,  and  scrambling  down  from  the  window-seat.  ‘‘  To  be  all 
this  time  in  Hampshire  and  never  come  near  us!” 

A moment  ago,  in  that  first  instant  of  a newly  awakened 
delight,  she  was  almost  betrayed  into  telling  him  that  she  loved 
him  dearly,  and  had  found  life  empty  without  him.  But,  hav- 
ing had  just  time  enough  to  recover  herself,  she  drew  herself  up 
as  straight  as  a dart,  and  looked  at  him  as  Kate  may  Lave  looked 
at  Petruchio  during  their  first  unpleasant  interview. 

“ All  this  time!”  cried  Rorie.  “ Do  you  know  how  long  I havO 
been  in  Hampshire  ?” 

Haven’t  the  least  idea,”  retorted  Vixen,  haughtily, 

‘‘  Just  half  an  hour — or,  at  least,  it  is  exactly  half  an  hour 
since  I was  deposited,  with  all  my  goods  and  chattels,  at  the 
Lynd hurst  Road  Station.” 

“ You  are  only  just  home  from  Switzerland?” 

“ Within  this  hour.” 

“ And  you  have  not  even  been  to  Briar  wood  ?” 

“My  honored  mother  still  awaits  my  duteous. greetings.” 

“ And  this  is  y our  twenty- first  birthday,  and  you  came  here 
first  of  ail.” 

And,  almost  uninvited,  the  tawny  head  dropped  on  to  his 
shoulder  again,  and  the  sweet  childish  lips  allowed  themselves 
to  be  kissed. 

“Rorie,  how  brown  you  have  grown  I” 

“Havel?” 

The  gray  eyes  were  looking  into  the  brown  ones  admiringly, 
and  the  conversation  was  getting  a trifle  desultory. 

Swift  as  a flash  Violet  recollected  herself.  It  dawned  upon 
her  that  it  was  not  quite  the  right  thing  for  a young  lady, 
“rising  sixteen,”  to  let  herself  be  kissed  so  tamely.  Besides, 
Rorie  never  used  to  do  it.  The  thing  was  a new  development,  a 
curious  outcome  of  his  Swiss  tour.  Perhaps  people  did  it  in 
Switzerland,  and  Rorie  had  acquired  the  habit. 

“ How  dare  you  do  such  a thing?”  exclaimed  Vixen,  shaking 

©’•self  clear  from  the  traveler's  encircling  arm. 

“I  didn’t  think  you  minded,”  said  Rorie,  innocently;  “and 


VIXEK  81 

when  a fellow  comes  home  from  a long  journey  he  expects  a 
warm  welcome.*’ 

And  I am  glad  to  see  yon,”  cried  Vixen,  giving  him  both  her 
hands  with  a glorious  frankness*  ‘‘  but  you  don’t  know  how  I 
have  been  hating  you  lately.” 

‘‘Why,  Vixen?” 

“ For  being  always  away.  I thought  you  had  forgotten  us  all, 
that  you  did  not  care  a jot  for  any  of  us.” 

“ I had  not  forgotten  any  of  you,  and  1 did  care — very  much — 
for  some  of  you.” 

This,  though  vague,  was  consoling. 

The  brown  became  Roderick.  Dark  of  visage  always,  he  waa 
now  tanned  to  a bronze  as  of  one  born  under  southern  skies. 
Those  deep  gray  eyes  of  his  looked  black  under  their  black 
lashes.  His  black  hair  was  cut  close  to  his  well-shaped  head. 
An  incipient  mustache  darkened  bis  upper  lip,  and  gave  fresh 
manhood  to  tlie  strong,  firm  mouth.  A manl}"  face  altogether, 
Roderick’s,  and  handsome  withal.  Vixen’s  short  life  had  shown 
her  none  handsomer. 

He  was  tall  and  strongly  built,  with  a frame  that  had  been 
developed  by  many  an  athletic  exercise,  from  throwing  the 
hammer  to  pugilism.  Vixen  thought  him  the  image  of  Richard 
Coeur  de  Lion.  She  had  been  reading  The  Talisman  late\; , and 
the  Plantagenet  was  her  ideal  of  manly  excellence. 

“Many  happy  returns  cf  the  day,  Rorie,”  she  said,  softly. 
“To  think  that  you  are  of  age  to-day!  Your  own  master!” 

“ Yes,  my  infancy  ceased  and  determined  at  the  last  stroke  of 
midnight  yesterday.  I wonder  whether  my  anxious  mother  will 
recognize  that  fact  ?” 

“ Of  course  you  know  what  is  going  to  happen  at  Briarwood. 
There  is  to  be  a grand  dinner  party.” 

“ And  you  are  coming  ? How  jolly!’ 

“ On  no,  Rorie.  I am  not  out  yet,  you  know.  I sha’n  t be  for 
two  years.  Papa  means  to  give  me  a season  in  town.  He  calls 
it  having  me  broken  to  harness.  He’ll  take  a furnished  house, 
and  we  shall  have  the  horses  up,  and  I shall  ride  in  the  Row. 
You’ll  be  with  us  part  of  the  time,  won’t  you,  Rorie?” 

“ Ca  se  peut.  If  papa  will  invite  me.” 

“ Oh,  he  will,  if  I wish  it.  It*s  to  be  my  first  season,  you 
know,  and  I’m  to  have  everything  my  owu  way.” 

“Will  that  be  a novelty  ?”  demanded  Roderick,  with  inten- 
tion. 

“ I don’t  know,  I haven’t  had  my  own  way  in  anything 
lately.” 

“ How  is  that?” 

“You  have  been  away.” 

At  this  naive  flattery  Roderick  almost  blushed. 

“ How  you’ve  grown.  Vixen!”  he  remarked  presently. 

“Have  I really?  Yes,  I suppose  I do  grow.  My  frocks  are 
always  getting  too  short.” 

“ Like  the  sleeves  of  my  dress-coats  a year  or  two  ago,” 

“ But  now  you  are  of  age,  and  can’t  grow  any  more.  What 


S3 


vixEm 


are  you  going  to  be,  Eorie  ? What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
your  liberty  ? Are  you  going  into  Parliament 

Mr.  Vavvdrey  indulged  in  a suppressed  yawn. 

“ My  mother  would  like  it,”  he  said,  “but  upon  my  word,  I 
don’t  care  about  it.  I don’t  take  enough  interest  in  my  fellow- 
creatures.” 

“ If  they  were  foxes,  you’d  be  anxious  to  legislate  for  them,” 
suggested  Vixen. 

“ I would  certainly  try  to  protect  them  from  indiscriminate 
slaughter.  And,  in  fact,  when  one  considers  the  looseness  of 
existing  game-laws,  I think  every  country  gentleman  ought  to 
be  in  Parliament.” 

“And  there  is  the  forest  for  you  to  take  care  of.” 

“ Yes,  forestry  is  a subject  on  which  I should  like  to  have  my 
say.  I suppose  I shall  be  obliged  to  turn  senator.  But  I mean 
to  take  life  easily;  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  Vixen;  and  I intend 
to  have  the  best  stud  of  hunters  in  Hampshire.  And  now  I 
think  I must  be  off.” 

“ No,  you  mustn’t,”  cried  Violet.  “The  dinner  is  not  till 
eight.  If  you  leave  here  at  six,  you  will  have  no  end  of  time  for 
getting  home  to  dress.  How  did  you  come  ?” 

“ On  these  two  legs.” 

“ "'ou  shall  have  four  to  take  you  to  Briarwood.  Vv^est  shall 
J’rive  you  home  in  papa’s  dog- cart  with  the  new  mare.  You 
aont  know  her,  do  you?  Papa  only  bought  her  last  spring. 
She  such  a beauty,  and  goes — goes — oh,  like  a sky-rocket.  Siio 
bolts  occasionally;  but  you  don’t  mind  that,  do  you?” 

“ Not  in  the  least.  It  would  be  rather  romantic  to  be  smashed 
on  one’s  twenty-first  birthday.  Will  you  tell  them  to  order  West 
to  get  ready  at  once  ?” 

“Oh,  but  you  are  to  stop  to  tea  with  Miss  M’Croke  and  me — 
that’s  part  of  our  bargain.  No  kettledrum,  no  Starlight  BessI 
And  you’d  scarcely  care  about  w'alking  to  Briarwood  under  such 
rain  as  that  I” 

“So  be  it,  then;  kettledrum  and  Starlight  Bess,  at  any  hazard 
of  maternal  wrath.  But  really  now  I‘m  doing  a most  ungentle- 
manly  thing,  Vixen,  to  oblige  you.” 

“Always  be  ungentlemanly,  then,  for  my  sake — if  it’s  ungen- 
tlemanly  to  come  and  see  me,”  said  Vixen,  coaxingly. 

They  were  standing  side  by  side  in  the  big  window  looking  out 
at  the  straight,  thin  rain.  The  two  pairs  of  lips  were  not  very 
far  away  from  each  other,  and  Eorie  might  have  been  tempted 
to  commit  a third  offense  against  the  proprieties  if  Miss  M’Croke 
had  not  fortunately  entered  at  this  very  moment.  She  was  won- 
derfully surprised  at  seeing  Mr.  Vawdrey,  congratulated  him 
ceremoniously  upon  his  majority,  and  infused  an  element  of 
stiffness  into  the  small  assembly. 

“Eorie  is  going  to  stay  to  tea,”  said  Vixen.  “We’ll  have  it 
here  by  the  fire,  please,  Crokey  dear.  One  can’t  have  too  much 
of  a good  fire  this  weather.  Or  shall  we  go  to  my  den  ? Which 
vould  you  like  best,  Eorie  ?” 

“ ^ think  we  had  better  have  tea  here,  Violet,”  interjected  Miss 
M’Croke,  ringing  the  bell. 


VIXEN. 


33 


Her  pupil’s  sanctum  sanctorum — that  pretty  up-stairs  room, 
half  school-room,  half  boudoir,  and  wholly  untidy — was  not,  in 
Miss  M’Croke’s  opinion,  an  apartment  to  bo  violated  by  the 
presence  of  a young  man. 

‘‘  And  as  Rory  hasn't  had  any  luncheon,  and  has  come  ever  so 
far  out  of  his  way  to  see  me,  please  order  something  substantial 
for  him,”  said  Vixen. 

Her  governess  obeyed.  The  gyi^sy  table  was  wheeled  up  to 
the  broad  hearth,  and  presently  the  oLl  silver  tea-pot  and  kettle, 
and  the  yellow  cups  and  saucers,  were  shining  in  the  cheery  fire- 
light. The  old  butler  put  a sirloin  and  a game  pie  on  the  side- 
board, and  then  left  the  little  party  to  shift  for  themselves  in 
pleasant  picnic  fashion. 

Vixen  sat  down  before  the  hissing  tea-kettle  with  a pretty, 
important  air,  like  a child  making  tea  out  of  toy  tea-things. 
Rorie  brought  a low  square  stool  to  a corner  close  to  her,  and 
seated  himself  with  his  chin  a little  above  the  tea-table. 

“You  can’t  eat  roast  beef  in  that  position,”  said  Vixen. 

“Oh,  yes,  I can— I can  do  anything  that’s  mad  or  merry  this 
evening.  But  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  I want  beef,  though  it’s 
nearly  three  months  since  I’ve  seen  an  honest  bit  of  ox  beef.  I 
think  thin  bread  and  butter — or  roses  and  dew  even — quite  sub- 
stantial enough  for  me  this  evening.” 

“You’re  afraid  of  spoiling  your  appetite  for  the  grand  dinner,” 
said  Vixen. 

“ No,  I’m  not.  I hate  grand  dinners.  Fancy  making  a fine 
art  of  eating,  and  studying  one’s  menu  beforehand  to  see  what 
combination  of  dishes  will  harmonize  best  with  one’s  internal 
economy!  And  then  the  names  of  the  things  are  always  better 
than  the  things  themselves.  It’s  like  a show  at  a fair,  all  the 
best  outside.  Give  me  a slice  of  English  beef  or  mutton,  and  a 
bird  that  my  gun  has  shot,  and  let  all  the  fine  art  dinners  go 
hang.” 

“Cut  him  a slice  of  beef,  dear  Miss  M’Croke.”  said  Vixen. 

“ Not  now,  thanks;  I can’t  eat  now.  I'm  going  to  drink  orange  ~ 
pekoe.” 

Argus  had  taken  u]:)  his  position  between  Violet  and  her  visitor. 
He  sat  bolt-upright,  like  a sentinel  keeping  guard  over  his  mis- 
tress. 

“Are  you  very  glad  to  come  of  age,  Rorie?”  asked  Vixen, 
turning  her  bright  brown  eyes  upon  him,  full  of  curiosity. 

“ Well,  it  will  be  rather  nice  to  have  as  much  money  as  I want 
without  asking  my  mother  for  it,  she  was  my  only  guardian,  you 
know.  My  father  had  such  confidence  in  her  rectiude  and 
capacity  that  he  left  everything  in  her  hands.” 

“Do  you  find  Briarwood  much  improved?”  inquired  Miss 
M'Croke. 

Lady  Jane  had  been  doing  a good  deal  to  her  orchid-houses 
lately. 

“ I haven’t  found  Briarwood  at  all  yet,”  answered  Rorie,  ‘‘  and 
Vixen  seems  determined  I sha’n’t  find  it.” 

“What,  have  you  only  iust  returned?” 

“Only  just,” 


84 


VIXEK 


^‘And  you  have  not  seen  Lady  Jane  yet?”  exclaimed  Miss 
M’Croke,  with  a horrified  look. 

‘‘It  sounds  rather  undutiful,  doesn’t  it?  I was  awfully  tired 
after  traveling  all  night,  and  I made  this  a kind  of  half-way 
house.” 

“Two  sides  of  a triangle  are  always  longer  than  any  one  side,” 
remarked  Vixen  gravely.  “ At  least  that’s  what  Miss  M’Croke 
has  taught  me.” 

“ It  was  rather  out  of  my  way,  of  course.  But  I wanted  to  see 
whether  Vixen  had  grown.  And  I wanted  to  see  the  squire.” 

“Papa  has  gone  to  Ring  wood  to  look  at  a horse,  but  you’ll  see 
him  at  the  grand  dinner.  He’ll  be  coming  home  to  dress  pres- 
ently.” 

“ I hope  you  had  an  agreeable  tour,  Mr%  Vawdrey  ?”  said  Miss 
M’Croke. 

“Oh,  uncommonly  jolly.” 

“ And  you  like  Switzerland  ?” 

“Yes;  it's  nice  and  hilly.” 

And  then  Roderick  favored  them  with  a sketch  of  his  travels 
While  they  sipped  their  tea,  and  while  Vixen  made  the  dogs 
balance  pieces  of  cake  on  their  big  blunt  noses. 

It  was  all  very  nice — the  Tete  Hoire,  and  Mont  Blanc,  and  the 
Matterhorn.  Rorie  jumbled  them  all  together,  without  the  least 
tegard  to  geography.  He  had  done  a good  deal  of  climbing,  had 
worn  out  and  lost  dozens  of  alpenstocks,  and  had  brought  home 
a case  of  Swiss  carved-work  for  his  friends. 

“ There’s  a clock  for  your  den.  Vixen — I shall  bring  it  to-mor- 
row— with  a little  cock-robin  that  comes  out  of  his  nest  and 
sings — no  end  of  jolly.” 

“ How  lovely!”  cried  Violet. 

The  tall  eight- day  clock  in  the  corner  of  the  hall  chimed  the 
half  hour. 

“Half  past  five,  and  Starlight  Bess  not  ordered!”  exclaimed 
Roderick. 

“Let’s  go  out  to  the  stables  and  see  about  her,”  suggested 
Vixen.  “And  then  I can  show  you  my  pony.  You  remember 
Titmouse,  the  one  that  would  jump?” 

“Violet!”  ejaculated  the  aggrieved  governess.  “ Do  you  sup- 
pose I would  permit  you  to  go  out  of  doors  in  such  weather  ?” 

“Do  you  think  it's  still  raining?”  asked  Vixen,  innocently. 
“ It  may  have  cleared  up.  Well,  we’d  better  order  the  cart,” 
she  added,  meekly,  as  she  rang  the  bell.  “I’m  not  of  age  yet, 
you  see,  Rorie.  Please,  Peters,  tell  West  to  get  papa’s  dog-cart 
ready  for  Mr.  Vawdrey,  and  to  drive  Starlight  Bess.” 

Rorie  looked  at  the  bright  face  admiringly.  The  shadows  had 
deepened;  there  was  no  light  in  the  great  oak-paneled  room 
except  the  ruddy  fire-glow,  and  in  this  light  Violet  Tempest 
looked  her  loveliest.  The  figures  in  the  tapestry  seemed  to 
move  in  the  flickering  light — appeared  and  vanished,  vanished 
and  appeared  like  the  phantoms  of  a dream.  The  carved  bosses 
of  the  ceiling  were  reflected  grotesquely  on  the  oaken  wall 
above  the  tapestry.  The  stags’  heads  had  a goblin  look.  It  was 
like  a scene  of  enchantment,  and  Violet,  in  her  black  frock  and 


VIXEK  35 

amber  sash,  looked  like  the  enchantress — Melusine,  or  some- 
body of  equally  dubious  antecedents. 

It  was  Miss  M’Croke’s  sleepiest  hour.  Orange  pekoe,  which 
has  an  awakening  influence  upon  most  people,  acted  as  an  opiate 
upon  her.  She  sat  blinking  owlishly  at  the  two  young  figures. 

Rorie  roused  himself  with  a great  effort! 

“ Unless  Starlight  Btss  spins  me  along  the  road  pretty  quickly, 
I shall  hardly  get  to  Briarwood  by  dinner-time,”  he  said;  “ and, 
upon  my  honor,  I don’t  feel  the  least  inclination  to  go.” 

“Oh,  what  fun  if  you  were  absent  at  your  coming-of-age  din- 
ner ?”  cried  Vixen,  with  her  brown  eyes  dancing  mischievously. 
“ Tliey  would  have  to  put  an  emi^ty  chair  for  you,  like  Ban- 
quo's.” 

“ It  would  be  a lark,”  acquiesced  Rorie,  “ but  it  wouldn’t  do. 
Now  for  Starlight  Bess.” 

They  went  into  the  vestibule,  and  Rorie  opened  the  door, 
letting  in  a gust  of  wind  and  rain,  and  the  scent  of  autumn’s 
last  ill-used  flowers. 

“Oh,  I so  nearly  forgot!”  said  Violet,  as  they  stood  on  the 
threshold,  side  by  side,  waiting  for  the  dog-cart  to  appear. 
“I’ve  got  a little  present  for  you — quite  a h.umble  one  for  a 
grand  young  land-owner  like  you;  but  I never  could  save  much 
of  my  pocket-money : there  are  so  many  poor  children  always 
having  scarlet-fever,  or  tumbling  into  the  fire,  or  drinking  out 
of  boiling  tea-kettles.  But  here  it  is,  Rorie.  I hope  you  won't 
hate  it  very  much.” 

She  put  a little  square  packet  into  his  hand,  which  he  proceed- 
ed instantly  to  open. 

“I  shall  love  it,  whatever  it  is.” 

“It’s  a portrait.” 

“ You  darling!  The  very  thing  I should  have  asked  for.” 

“ The  portrit  of  some  one  you’re  fond  of.” 

“ Some  one  I adore,”  said 'Rorie 

He  had  extracted  the  locket  from  its  box  by  this  time.  It  was 
a thick  oblong  locket  of  dead  gold,  plain  and  massive;  the  hand- 
somest of  its  kind  that  a Southampton  jeweler  could  supply. 

Rorie  opened  it  eagerly,  to  look  at  the  portrait. 

There  was  just  light  enough  from  the  newly  kindled  vestibule 
lamp  to  show  it  to  him. 

“ Why,  it’s  a dog,”  cried  Rorie,  with  deep-toned  disgust.  “ It’s 
old  Argus.” 

“ Who  did  you  think  it  was  ?” 

“ You,  of  course.” 

“ What  an  idea!  As  if  I should  give  any  one  my  portrait! 
I knew  you  were  fond  of  Argus.  Doesn’t  his  head  come  out 
beautifully  ? The  photographer  said  he  was  the  best  sitter  he 
had  had  for  ever  so  long.  I hope  you  don’t  quite  detest  the 
locket,  Rorie.” 

“ I admire  it  intensely,  and  I’m  deeply  grateful.  But  I feel 
inexpressibly  sold,  all  the  same.  And  I am  to  go  about  the 
world  with  Argus  dangling  at  my  breast.  Well,  for  your  sake. 
Vixen,  I’ll  submit  even  to  that  degradation.” 

Here  came  the  cart,  with  two  flaming  lamps,  like  angry  eyes 


36 


VIXEN. 


flashing  through  the  shrubberies.  It  pulled  up  at  the  steps. 
Rorie  and  Vixen  clasped  hands  and  bade  good-night,  and  then  the 
young  man  swung  himself  lightly  into  the  seat  beside  the  driver, 
and  away  went  Starlight  Bess  making  just  that  sort  of  dashing 
and  spirited  start  whicli  inspires  the  feholder  with  the  idea  that 
the  next  proceeding  will  be  the  bringing  home  of  the  driver  and 
bis  companion  upon  a brace  of  shutters. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

RORIE  MAKES  A SPEECH. 

Somewhat  to  his  surprise,  and  much  to  his  delight,  Roderick 
Vawdrey  escaped  that  maternal  lecture,  which  he  was  wont 
undutifully  to  describe  as  a “wigging/^  When  he  entered  the 
drawing-room  in  full  dress,  just  about  ten  minutes  before  the 
first  of  the  guests  was  announced,  Lady  Jane  received  him  with 
a calm  affectionateness,  and  asked  him  no  questions  about  his 
disposal  of  the  afternoon.  Perhaps  this  unusual  clemency 
was  because  of  his  twenty -first  birthday,  Rorie  thought.  A man 
could  not  come  of  age  more  than  once  in  his  life.  He  was  en- 
titled to  some  favor. 

The  dinner  party  was  as  other  dinners  at  Briarwood;  all  the 
arrangements  perfect;  the  menu  commendable,  if  not  new;  the 
general  result  a little  dull. 

The  Ashbourne  party  were  among  the  first  to  arrive;  the  duke 
portly  and  affable;  the  duchess  delighted  to  welcome  her  favorite 
nephew;  Lady  Mabel  looking  very  fragile,  flower-like,  and  grace- 
ful, in  her  pale  blue  gauze  dinner  dress.  Lady  Mabel  affected 
the  palest  tints,  half-colors,  which  were  more  like  the  shadows 
in  a sunset  sky  than  any  earthly  hues. 

She  took  possession  of  Rorie  at  once,  treating  him  with  a calm 
superiority,  as  if  he  had  been  a younger  brother. 

“ Tell  me  all  about  Switzerland,”  she  said,  as  they  sat  side  by 
side  on  one  of  the  amber  ottomans.  “What  was  it  that  you 
liked  best?” 

“ The  climbing,  of  course,”  he  answ^ered. 

“But  which  of  all  the  landscapes ? What  struck  you  most? 
What  impressed  you  most  deeply  ? Your  first  view  of  Mont 
Blanc,  or  that  wondrous  gorge  below  the  Tete  Noire,  or ” 

“ It  was  all  uncommonly  jolly.  But  there’s  a family  resem- 
blance in  Swiss  mountains,  don’t  you  know.  They’re  all  white, 
and  they’re  all  peaky.  There’s  a likeness  in  Swiss  lakes,  too,  if 
you  come  to  think  of  it.  They're  all  blue,  and  they’re  all  wet. 
And  Swiss  villages,  now:  don't  you  think  they  are  rather  disap- 
pointing ? — such  a cruel  plagiarism  of  those  plaster  chalets  the 
image  men  carry  about  the  Loudon  streets,  and  no  candle- 
ends  burning  inside  to  make  ’em  look  pretty.  But  I liked 
Lucerne  uncommonly,  there  was  such  a capital  billiard  table  at 
the  hotel.” 

“ Roderick  I”  cried  Lady  Mabel,  with  a disgusted  look.  “I 
don’t  think  you  have  a vestige  of  poetry  in  your  nature.” 

“ I hope  I haven’t,”  replied  Rorie,  devoutly. 

“You  could  see  those  sublime  scenes,  and  never  once  feelyoui* 


VIXEN. 


a7 

heart  thrilled  or  your  mind  exalted — you  can  come  home  from 
your  first  Swiss  tour  and  talk  about  billiard  tables  !” 

“ The  scenery  ^as  very  nice,”  said  Rorie,  thoughtfully. 
“ Yes  there  were  times,  perhaps,  when  I was  a trifle  stunned 
by  ail  that  grand  calm  beauty,  the  silence,  the  solitude,  the  aw- 
fulness of  it  all ; but  I have  hardly  time  to  fetl  the  thrill  when 
I came  bump  up  against  a party  of  tourists,  English  or  Ameii- 
can,  all  talking  the  same  twaddle,  and  all  patronizing  the  scen- 
ery. That  took  the  charm  out  of  the  landscape  somehow,  and  I 
coiled  up,  as  the  Yankees  say.  And  now  you  want  me  to  go 
into  second-hand  raptures,  and  repeat  my  emotions  as  if  I were 
writing  a tourist  article  for  a magazine.  1 can’t  do  it,  Mabel.” 

“ Well,  I won't  bore  you  any  more  about  it.”  said  Laly  Mabel, 
‘‘  but  I confess  my  disappointment.  I thought  we  should  have 
such  nice  long  talks  about  Switzerland.” 

What’s  the  use  of  talking  of  a place?  If  it’s  so  lovely  that 
one  can’t  live  without  it,  one  had  letter  go  back  there.” 

This  was  a practical  way  of  putting  things  which  was  too 
much  for  Lady  Mabel.  She  fanned  herself  gently  with  a great 
fan  of  cloudy-looking  feathers — such  a fan  as  Titania  might 
have  used  that  midsummer  night  near  Athens.  She  relapsed 
into  a placid  silence,  looking  at  Rorie  thoughtfully  with  her 
calm  blue  eyes. 

His  travels  had  improved  him.  That  bronze  hue  suited  liim 
wonderfully  well.  He  looked  more  manly.  He  was  no  longer  a 
beardless  boy,  to  be  patronized  with  that  gracious  elder  sister 
air  of  Lady  Mabel’s.  She  feit  tliat  he  was  further  off  from  her 
than  he  had  been  last  season  in  London. 

“ How  late  you  arrived  this  evening!”  she  said,  after  a pause. 
“I  came  to  kettle-drum  with  my  aunt,  and  found  her  quite 
anxious  about  you.  If  it  hadn’t  been  for  your  telegram  from 
Southampton  she  would  have  fancied  there  was  something 
wrong.” 

“ She  needn’t  have  fidgeted  herself  after  three  o'clock,”  answer- 
ed Rorie,  coolly;  ‘‘  my  luggage  must  have  come  home  by  that 
time.” 

“ I see.  You  sent  the  luggage  on  before,  and  came  by  a later 
train  ?” 

“ No,  I didn’t.  I stopped  half- way  between  here  and  Lynd- 
hurst  to  see  some  old  friends.” 

“Flattering  for  my  aunt,”  said  Mabel.  “I  should  have 
thought  she  was  joiiv  oldest  friend.” 

“Of  course  she  has  the  prior  claim.  But  as  I was  going  to 
hand  myself  over  to  her  bodily  at  seven  o'clock,  to  be  speechified 
about  and  rendered  generally  ridiculous,  aftsr  the  manner  of 
young  men  who  come  of  age,  L felt  I was  entitled  to  do  what  I 
liked  in  the  iuterval.” 

“ And  therefore  you  went  to  the  Tempests’,”  said  Mabel,  with 
her  blue  eyes  sparkling.  “ 1 see.  That  is  what  you  do  when  you 
do  what  you  like.” 

“Precisely.  I am  very  fond  of  Squire  Tempest.  When  I 
first  rode  to  hounds  it  was  under  his  wing.  There’s  my  mother 
beckoning  me;  I am  to  go  back  and  do  the  civil  to  people.” 


VIXEN. 


And  Roderick  walked  away  from  the  ottoman  to  the  spot 
where  his  mother  stood,  with  the  Duke  of  Dovedale  at  her  side, 
receiving  her  guests, 

“It  w’as  a very  grand  party  in  the  way  of  blue  blood,  landed 
estates,  diamonds,  lace,  satin  and  velvet,  and  self-importance. 
All  the  magnates  of  the  soil  within  accessible  distance  of  Briar- 
wood  had  assembled  to  do  honor  to  Rorie’s  coming  of  age.  The 
dining  table  had  been  arranged  in  a horseshoe,  so  as  to  accom- 
modate seventy  people  in  a room  which  in  its  every-day  con- 
dition would  not  have  been  too  large  for  thirty.  The  orchids 
and  ferns  upon  this  horseshoe  table  made  the  finest  floricultural 
sho9r  that  had  been  seen  for  a long  time.  There  were  rare  speci- 
mens from  New  Granada  and  the  Philippine  Islands;  wondrous 
flowers  lately  discovered  in  the  Sierra  Madre;  blossoms  of  every 
shape  and  color  from  the  Cordilleras;  richest  varieties  of  hue, 
golden  yellow,  glowing  crimson,  creamy  white;  butterfly  flow- 
ers and  pitcher-shaped  flowers  that  had  cost  as  much  money  as 
prize  pigeons,  and  seemed  as  w^orthless,  save  to  the  connoisseur 
in  the  article.  The  Vawdrey  racing  plate,  won  by  Roderick’s 
grandfather,  was  nowhere  by  comparison  with  those  wondrous 
tropical  blossoms,  that  fairy  forest  of  fern.  Everybody  talked 
about  the  orchids,  confessed  their  comparative  ignorance  of  the 
subject,  and  complimented  Lady  Jane. 

“ The  orchids  made  the  hit  of  the  evening,”  Rorie  said  after- 
ward. “ It  was  their  coming  of  age,  not  mine.” 

There  was  a moderate  and  endurable  amount  of  speechifying 
by  and  by,  when  the  monster  double-crowned  pines  had  been 
cut,  and  the  purple  grapes,  that  were  almost  as  big  as  pigeons’ 
eggs,  had  gone  round. 

The  Duke  of  Dovedale  assured  his  friends  that  this  was 
one  of  the  proudest  moments  of  his  life;  and  that  if  Providence 
had  permitted  a son  of  his  own  to  attain  his  majority,  he,  the 
duke,  could  have  hardly  felt  more  deeply  than  he  felt  to-day. 
He  had — arra — arra — known  this  young  man  from  childhood, 
and — had — er — um — never  found  him  guilty  of  a mean  action — 
or — arra — discovered  in  him  a thought  unworthy  of  an  English 
gentleman. 

This  last  is  felt  to  be  a strong  point,  as  it  implies  that  an  En- 
glish gentleman  must  needs  be  much  better  than  any  other  gen- 
tleman. A Continental  gentleman  might,  of  course,  be  guilty 
of  an  unworthy  thought  and  yet  pass  current,  according  to  the 
loose  morality  of  his  nation.  But  the  English  article  must  be 
flawless. 

And  thus  the  duke  meanders  on  for  five  minutes  or  so,  and 
there  is  a subdued  gush  of  approval,  and  then  an  uncomfortable 
little  pause,  and  then  Rorie  gets  up  in  his  place,  next  to  the 
duchess,  and  returns  thanks. 

He  tells  them  all  how  fond  he  is  of  them  and  the  soil  that  bred 
them.  How  he  means  to  be  a Hampshire  squire,  pure  and  sim- 
ple, if  he- can.  How  he  has  no  higher  ambition  than  to  be  use- 
ful and  to  do  good  in  this  little  spot  of  England  which  Provi- 
dence has  given  him  for  his  inlieritance.  How,  if  he  should  go 
into  Parliament  by  and  by,  as  he  has  some  thoughts  of  attempt- 


VIXEN. 


89 


ing  to  do,  it  will  be  in  their  interests  that  he  will  join  that  noble 
body  of  legislators;  that  it  will  be  they  and  their  benefit  be  will 
have  always  nearest  at  heart. 

“There  is  not  a tree  in  the  forest  that  I do  not  love,”  cried 
Eorie,  fired  with  his  theme,  and  forgetting  to  stammer;  “ and  I 
believe  there  is  not  a tree  from  the  Twelve  Apostles  to  the 
Knight  wood  Oak,  or  a patch  of  gorse  from  Pocket  Post  to  Stony 
Cross,  that  I do  not  know  as  well  as  I know  the  friends  round 
me  to-night.  I was  bom  in  the  forest,  and  may  I live  and  die 
and  be  buried  here!  I have  just  come  back  from  seeing  some  of 
the  finest  scenery  in  Europe;  yet,  without  blushing  for  my 
want  of  poetry,  I will  confess  that  the  awful  grandeur  of  those 
snow-clad  mountains  did  not  toucli  my  heart  so  deeply  as  our 
beechen  glades  and  primrose-carpeted  bottoms  close  at  home.” 

There  was  a burst  of  applause  after  Eorie’s  speech  that  made 
all  the  orchids  shiver  and  nearly  annihilated  a thirty-guinea 
Odontoglossiim  vexillarium.  His  talk  about  the  forest,  irrele- 
vant as  it  might  be,  went  home  to  the  hearts  of  the  neighbor- 
ing land-owners.  But  by  and  by,  in  the  drawing-room,  when 
he  rejoined  his  cousin,  he  found  that  fastidious  young  lady  by 
no  means  complimentary. 

“ Your  speech  would  have  been  capital  half  a century  ago, 
Eorie,”  she  said,  “and  you  don  t arra,  arra,  as  poor  papa  does, 
which  is  something  to  be  thankful  for;  but  all  that  talk  about 
the  forest  seemed  to  be  an  anachronism.  People  are  not  rooted 
in  their  native  soil  nowadays,  as  they  used  to  be  in  the  old 
stage-coach  times,  when  it  was  a long  day’s  journey  to  London. 
One  might  as  well  be  a vegetable  at  once  if  one  is  to  be  pinned 
down  to  one  particular  spot  of  earth.  Why,  the  Twelve  Apos- 
tles,” exclaimed  Mabel,  innocent  of  irreverence,  for  she  meant 
certain  ancient  oaks  so  named,  “ see  as  much  of  life  as  your  fine 
old  English  gentleman.  Men  have  wider  ideas  nowadays.  The 
world  is  hardly  big  enough  for  ambition.” 

“ I would  rather  live  in  a field,  and  strike  my  roots  deep  down 
like  one  of  those  trees,  than  be  a homeless  nomad  with  a world- 
wide ambition,”  answered  Eorie.  “ I have  a j)assion  for  home.” 

“ Then  I wonder  you  spend  so  little  time  in  it.” 

“Oh,  I don’t  mean  a home  inside  four  walls.  The  forest  is 
my  home,  and  Briarwood  is  no  dearer  to  me  than  any  other  spot 
in  it.” 

“ Not  so  dear  as  the  Abbey  House,  perhaps?” 

“ Well,  no.  I confess  that  fine  old  Tudor  mansion  pleases  me 
better  than  this  abode  of  straight  lines  and  French  windows, 
plate-glass  and  gilt  moldings.” 

They  sat  side  by  side  upon  the  amber  ottoman^  Eorie  with 
Mabel’s  blue  feather  fan  in  his  hand,  twirling  and  twisting  it  as 
he  talked,  and  doing  more  damage  to  that  elegant  article  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  than  a twelvemonth’s  legitimate  usage  would 
have  done.  People  looking  at  the  pretty  pair  smiled  signifi- 
cantly, and  concluded  that  it  would  be  a match,  and  went  home 
and  told  less  privileged  people  about  the  evident  attachment  be- 
tween the  duke’s  daughter  and  the  young  commoner.  But  Eorie 
was  not  strongly  drawn  toward  his  cousin  this  evening.  It 


40 


VIXEN. 


seemed  to  him  that  she  was  growing  more  and  more  of  a para- 
gon: and  he  hated  paragons. 

She  piaj^ed  presently,  and  afterwards  sang  some  French  chan- 
sons. Both  playing  and  singing  were  perfect  of  their  kind. 
Rorie  did  not  understand  Chopin,  and  tiiought  there  was  a good 
deal  of  unnecessary  hopping  about  the  piano  in  that  sort  cf 
thing — nothing  concrete,  or  that  came  to  a focus;  a succession 
of  airy  meanderings.fa  fairy  dance  in  the  treble,  a goblin  hunt  in 
the  bass.  But  the  French  chansons,  the  dainty  little  melodies 
with  words  of  infantile  innocence,  all  about  leaves  and  buds, 
and  bird’s  nests  and  butterflies,  pleased  him  infinitely.  He  hung 
over  the  piano  wdth  an  enraptured  air;  and  again  his  friends 
made  note  of  his  subjugation,  and  registered  the  fact  for  future 
discussion. 


CHAPTER  V. 

HOW  SHE  TOOK  THE  NEWS. 

It  was  past  midiiight  when  the  Tempest  carriage  drove  through 
the  dark  rhododendron  shrubberies  up  to  the  old  Tudor  porch. 
There  was  a great  pile  of  logs  burning  in  the  hall,  giving  the 
home-comers  cheery  welcome.  There  was  an  antique  silver 
spirit  stand  with  its  accompaniments  on  one  little  table  for  the 
squire,  and  there  was  another  little  table  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  hearth  for  Mrs.  Tempest,  with  a dainty  tea-service  sparkling 
and  shining  in  the  red  glow. 

A glance  at  these  arrangements  would  have  told  you  that 
there  were  old  servants  at  the  Abbey  House — servants  who  know 
their  master's  and  mistress’s  ways,  and  for  whom  service  was 
more  or  less  a labor  of  love. 

“ How  nice!”  said  the  lady,  with  a contented  sigh.  ‘‘Pauline 
has  thought  of  my  cup  of  tea.” 

“ And  Forbes  has  not  forgotten  my  soda-water,”  remarked  the 
squire. 

He  said  nothing  about  the  brandy,  which  he  was  pouring  into 
the  tall  glass  with  a liberal  hand. 

Pauline  came  to  take  off  her  mistress’s  cloak,  and  was  praised 
for  her  thoughtfulness  about  the  tea,  and  then  dismissed  for  the 
night. 

The  squire  liked  to  stretch  his  legs  before  his  own  fireside  after 
dining  out;  and  with  the  squire,  as  with  Mr.  Squeers,  the  leg- 
stretching  process  involved  the  leisurely  consumption  of  a good 
deal  of  brandy  and  water. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tempest  talked  over  the  Briar  wood  dinner  party, 
and  arrived — with  perfect  good  nature — at  the  conclusion  that  it 
had  been  a failure. 

“ The  dinner  was  excellent,”  said  the  squire,  “but  the  wine 
went  round  too  slow;  my  glasses  were  empty  half  the  time. 
That’s  always  the  way  when  you’ve  a woman  at  the  helm.  Slie 
won’t  put  out  enough  w ine,  and  she  won't  trust  her  servants 
with  the  keys  of  her  cellars.” 

“ The  dresses  were  lovely,”  said  Mrs.  Tempest,  “ but  every  one 
looked  bored.  How  did  you  like  my  dress,  Edward?  I think 


VIXEN. 


41 


it’s  rather  p:ood  style.  Theodore  will  charge  me  horribly  for  it, 
I dare  say.” 

“ I don’t  know  much  about  your  dress,  Pam,  but  you  were  the 
prettiest  woman  in  the  room.” 

‘‘Oh,  Edward,  at  my  age  I”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tempest,  with  a 
pleased  look,  “ when  there  was  that  lovely  Lady  Mabel  Ash- 
bourne.” 

“ Do  you  call  her  lovely  ? — I don’t.  Lips  too  thin;  waist  too 
slim;  too  much  blood,  and  too  little  bone.” 

“Oh,  but  surely,  Edward,  she  is  grace  itself;  quite  an  ethereal 
creature.  If  Violet  had  more  of  that  refined  air ” 

“Heaven  forbid!  Vixen  is  worth  twenty  such  fine-drawn 
misses.  Lady  Mabel  has  been  spoiled  by  overtraining.” 

“ Roderick  is  evidently  in  love  with  her,”  suggested  Mrs.  Tem- 
pest, pouring  out  another  cup  of  tea. 

Tlie  clocks  had  just  struck  two,  the  household  was  at  rest,  the 
logs  blazed  and  cracked  merrily,  the  red  light  shining  on  those 
mail-clad  effigies  in  the  corners,  lighting  up  helm  and  hauberk, 
glancing  on  greaves  and  gauntlets.  It  was  an  hour  of  repose 
and  gossip  which  the  squire  dearly  loved. 

Hush!  what  is  this  creeping  softly  down  the  old  oak  staircase  ? 
A slender  white  figure,  with  cloudy  hair,  a small  pale  face,  and 
two  dark  eyes  shining  with  excitement:  little  feet,  in  black  vel- 
vet slippers,  tripping  lightly  upon  the  polished  oak. 

Is  it  a ghost  ? No:  ghosts"  are  noiseless,  and  those  little  slippers 
descend  from  stair  to  stair  with  a gentle  pit-a-pat. 

“ Bless  my  soul  and  body!”  cried  the  squire,  “what’s  this?” 

A gush  of  girlish  laughter  was  his  only  answer. 

“ Vixen!” 

“ Did  you  take  me  for  a ghost,  papa?”  cried  Violet,  descending 
the  last  five  stairs  with  a flying  leap,  and  then  bounding  across 
the  hall  to  perch,  light  as  a bird,  upon  her  father’s  knee.  “ Did 
I really  frighten  you  ? Did  you  think  the  good  old  Abbey  House 
was  going  to  set  up  a family  ghost — a wliite  lady  with  a dismal 
history  of  a broken  heart  ? You  darling  papa!  I hope  you  took 
me  for  a ghost!” 

“ Well,  upon  my  word,  you  know.  Vixen,  I was  just  the  least 
bit  staggered.  Your  little  wliite  figure  looked  like  something 
uncanny  against  the  black  oak  balustrades,  half  in  light,  half  in 
shadow.” 

“How  nice!”  exchaimed  Violet. 

“But,  my  dear  Violet,  what  can  have  induced  you  to  come 
down-stairs  at  such  an  hour?”  said  Mrs.  Tempest,  in  an  aggrieved 
voice. 

“ I want  to  hear  all  about  the  party,  mamma,”  answered 
Vixen,  coaxingly.  “Do  you  think  I could  sleep  a wink  on  the 
night  of  Rorie’s  coming  of  age  ? I heard  the  joy-bells  ringing  in 
my  ears  all  night.” 

“That  was  very  ridiculous.”  said  Mrs.  Tempest,  “for  there 
were  no  joy-bells  after  eleven  o’clock  yesterday.” 

“ But  they  rang  all  the  same,  mamma.  It  was  no  U'^je  burying 
my  head  in  tlie  pillows:  those  bells  only  rang  the  louder.  Ding- 
dong,  ding-dong,  deU,  Rorie’s  come  of  age;  ding-dong,  deil, 


42 


VIXEN. 


Rorie’s  twenty-one.  Then  I thought  of  the  speeches  that  would 
be  made,  and  I fancied  I could  hear  Rorie  speaking.  Did  he 
make  a good  speech,  papa  ?” 

“ Capital,  Vix;  the  only  one  that  was  worth  hearing.” 

‘‘I  am  so  glad!  And  did  he  look  handsome  while  he  was 
speaking?  I think  the  Swiss  sunshine  has  rather  overcooked 
him,  you  know;  but  he  is  not  unbecomingly  brown.” 

“ He  looked  as  handsome  a young  fellow  as  you  need  wish  to 
set  e7/es  on.” 

‘‘  My  dear  Edward,”  remonstrated  Mrs.  Tempest,  languidly, 
‘‘  do  you  think  it  is  quite  wise  of  you  to  encourage  Violet  in  that 
kind  of  talk?” 

“ Why  should  she  not  talk  of  him  ? She  never  had  a brother, 
and  he  stands  in  the  place  of  one  to  her.  Isn’t  Rorie  the  same  to 
you  as  an  elder  brother,  Vix?” 

The  girl’s  head  was  on  her  father's  shoulder,  one  slim  arm  round 
his  neck,  her  face  hidden  against  the  squire’s  coat  collar.  He 
could  not  see  the  deep,  warm  flush  that  dyed  his  daughter’s 
cheek  at  this  home  question. 

“I  don’t  quite  know  what  an  elder  brother  would  be  like, 
papa.  But  I’m  very  fond  of  Rorie — when  he’s  nice,  and  comes 
to  see  us  before  any  one  else,  as  he  did  to-day.” 

“ And  when  he  stays  away  ?” 

“ Oh,  then  I hate  him  awfuUy,”  exclaimed  Vixen,  with  such 
energy  that  the  slender  figure  tremlded  faintly  as  she  spoi-'e. 
“ But  tell  me  all  about  the  party,  mamma.  Your  dress  was 
quite  the  prettiest,  I am  sure  V” 

“ I’m  not  certain  of  that,  Violet,”  answered  Mrs.  Tempest, 
with  grave  deliberation,  as  if  the  question  were  far  too  serious 
to  be  answered  lightly.  ‘‘  There  was  a cream-colored  silk,  with 
silver  bullion  fringe,  that  was  very  striking.  As  a rule,  I detest 
gold  or  silver  trimmings  : but  this  was  really  elegant.  It  had  an 
effect  like  moonlight.” 

“Was  that  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne's  dress?’  asked  Vixen, 
eagerly. 

“No  ; Lady  Mabel  wore  blue  gauze,  the  very  palest  blue,  all 
puffings  and  ruchings — like  a cloud.” 

“ Oh,  mamma  ! the  clouds  have  no  puffings  and  ruchings.” 

“ My  dear,  I mean  the  general  effect — a sort  of  shadowy  ness 
which  suits  Lady  Mabel’s  ethereal  style.” 

“Ethereal!”  repeated  Violet,  thoughtfully.  “You  seem  to 
admire  her  very  much,  mamma.” 

“ Everybody  admires  her,  my  dear.” 

“ Because  she  is  a duke’s  only  daughter.” 

“No  : because  she  is  very  lovely,  and  extremely  elegant,  and 
most  accomplished.  She  played  and  sang  beautifully  to  night.’' 

“ What  did  she  play,  mamma?” 

“ Chojun  !” 

“ Did  she?”  cried  Vixen.  “Then  I pity  her.  Yes,  even  if  she 
were  my  worst  enemy,  I should  still  pity  hen” 

“ People  who  are  fond  of  music  don’t  mind  difficulties,”  said 
Mrs.  Tempest. 

“Don’t  they?  Then  I suppose  I’m  not  fond  of  it,  because  I 


VIXEN.  43 

shirk  my  practice.  But  I should  be  very  fond  music  if  I 
could  grind  it  on  a barrel-organ.” 

“Oh,  Violet,  when  will  you  be  like  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne  ?” 

“ Never,  I devoutly  hope,”  said  the  squire. 

Here  the  squire  gave  his  daughter  a hug  which  might  mean 
anything. 

“Never,  mamma,”  answered  Violet,  with  conviction.  “First 
and  foremost,  I never  can  be  lovely,  because  I have  red  hair  and 
a wide  mouth.  Secondly,  I can  never  be  elegant — much  less 
ethereal — ^because  it  isn’t  in  me.  Thirdly,  I shall  never  be  ac- 
complished, for  poor  Miss  M’Croke  is  always  giving  me  up  as 
the  baddest  lot  in  the  way  of  pupils  that  ever  came  in  her  way.” 

“If  you  persist  in  talking  in  that  horrible  way,  Violet ” 

“ Let  her  talk  as  she  likes,  Pam,”  said  the  fond  father.  “I 
won’t  have  her  bitted  too  heavily.” 

Mrs.  Tempest  gave  her  gentle  sigh  of  resignation.  The  squ^e 
was  all  that  is  dear  and  good  as  husband  and  father,  but  refine- 
ment was  out  of  his  line. 

“Do  go  on  about  the  party,  mamma.  Did  Rorie  seem  to 
enjoy  himself  very  much  ?” 

“ i think  so.  He  was  very  devoted  to  his  cousin  all  the  even- 
ing. I believe  thev  are  engaged  to  be  married.” 

“Mamma!”  exclaimed  Vixen,  starting  up  from  her  reclining 
attitude  upon  her  father’s  shoulder,  and  looking  intently  at  the 
speaker:  “ Rorie  engaged  to  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne!” 

“ So  I am  told,”  replied  Mrs.  Tempest.  “ It  will  be  a splendid 
match  for  him.” 

The  pretty  chestnut  head  dropped  back  into  its  old  place  upon 
the  squire’s  shoulder,  and  Violet  answered  never  a word. 

“Past  two  o’clock,”  cried  her  mother.  “This  is  really  too 
dreadful.  Come,  Violet,  you  and  I must  go  up-stairs  at  any 
rate.” 

“ We’ll  all  go,”  said  the  squire,  finishing  his  second  brandy 
and  soda. 

So  they  all  three  went  up-stairs  together.  Vixen  had  grown 
suddenly  silent  and  sleepy.  She  yawned  dolefully,  and  kissed 
her  mother  and  father  at  the  end  of  the  gallery,  without  a word, 
and  then  scudded  off,  swift  as  a scared  rabbit,  to  her  own 
room. 

“God  bless  her!”  exclaimed  the  squire;  “she  grows  prettier 
and  more  winning  every  day.” 

“ If  her  mouth  were  only  a little  smaller,”  sighed  Mrs.  Tem- 
pest. 

“ It’s  the  prettiest  mouth  I ever  saw  upon  woman — bar  one,” 
said  the  squire. 

What  was  Vixen  doing  while  the  fond  father  w'as  praising 
her? 

She  had  locked  her  door  and  thrown  herself  face  downward 
on  the  carpet,  and  was  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Rorie  was  going  to  be  married.  Her  little  kingdom  had  been 
overturned  by  a revolution,  her  little  world  had  crumbled  all  to 
pieces.  Till  to-night  she  had  been  a queen  in  her  own  mind, 
and  her  kingdom  had  been  Rorie,  her  subjects  had  begun  and 


44 


VIXEK 


ended  in  Rorie.  All  was  over.  He  belonged  to  some  one  else. 
She  could  never  tyrannize  over  him  again — never  scold  him 
and  abuse  him  and  ridicule  him  any  more.  He  was  her  Rorie 
no  longer. 

Had  she  ever  thought  that  a time  might  come  when  he  would 
be  something  more  to  her  than  playfellow  and  friend  ? No, 
never.  The  young,  bright  mind  was  too  childishly  simple  for 
any  such  foresight  or  calculation.  She  had  only  thought  that 
ho  was  in  some  wise  her  property,  and  would  be  so  till  the  end 
of  both  their  lives.  He  was  hers,  and  he  was  very  fond  of  her, 
and  she  thought  him  a rather  absurd  young  fellow,  and  looked 
down  upon  him  from  the  altitude  of  her  childish  wonianliness. 

And  now  he  was  gone.  The  earth  had  opened  all  at  once  and 
swallowed  him,  like  that  prophetic  gentleman  in  the  Greek 
play,  whose  name  she  could  never  remember — chariot  and 
horses  and  all.  He  belonged,  henceforth,  , to  Lady  Mabel  Ash- 
bourne. She  could  never  be  rude  to  him  any  more;  she  could 
not  take  such  u,  liberty  with  another  young  lady's  lover. 

“And  to  think  that  he  should  never  have  told  me  he  was 
going  to  be  engaged  to  her!'’ slie  said.  “ He  must  have  been 
fond  of  her  from  the  very  beginning;  and  he  never  said  a word; 
and  he  let  me  think  he  rather  liked  me — or  at  least  tolerated  me. 
And  how  conld  he  like  two  people  who  are  the  very  antipodes 
of  eaoh  other?  If  he  is  fond  of  her,  he  must  detest  me.  If  he 
respects  her,  lie  must  despise  me.’’ 

The  thought  of  such  treachery  rankled  deep  in  the  young, 
warm  heart.  Vixen  started  up  to  her  feet,  and  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  fire-lit  room,  with  clinched  fists,  like  a young  fury. 
The  light  chestnut  tresses  should  have  been  Medusa’s  snakes  to 
have  harmonized  with  that  set  white  face.  God  had  given  Vio- 
let Tempest  a heart  to  feel  deeply,  too  deeply  for  perfect  peace, 
or  tliat  angelic  softness  v^hich  seems  to  us  most  worthy  in 
woman — the  power  to  suffer  and  be  patient. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

RORIE  HAS  PLANS  OF  HIS  OWN. 

Roderick  Vawdrey’s  ideas  of  what  was  due  to  a young  man 
who  attains  his  majority  were  in  no  wise  satisfied  by  his  birth- 
c\aj  dinner  party.  It  had  been  pleasant  enough  in  its  way,  but 
far  too  much  after  the  pattern  of  all  other  dinner  parties  to 
please  a young  man  who  hated  all  common  and  hackneyed 
things,  and  all  the  beaten  tracks  of  life,  or  who,  at  any  rate, 
fancied  he  did,  which  comes  to  nearly  the  same  thing. 

“ Mother,”  he  began,  at  breakfast  next  morning,  in  his  loud, 
cheery  voice,  “ we  must  have  something  for  the  small  tenants 
and  shop-keepers  and  cottagers.” 

‘‘What  do  you  mean,  Roderick?” 

“Some  kind  of  entertainment  to  celebrate  my  majority.  The 
people  will  expect  it.  Last  night  polished  off  the  swells  very 
nicely.  The  ^whole  thing  did  you  credit,  mother.” 

“Tliank  you,”  said  Lady  Jane,  with  a plight  contraction  of 
her  thin  lips. 


VIXEN. 


45 


This  October  mornins:,  so  pleasant  for  Rorie,  was  rather  a 
bitter  day  for  his  mother.  She  liad  been  reigning  sovereign  at 
Briar  wood  hitherto;  henceforth  she  could  only  live  there  on 
sufferance.  The  house  was  Rorie’s.  Even  tlie  orchid  houses  were 
his.  He  might  take  her  to  task  if  he  pleased  for  having  spent 
so  much  money  on  glass. 

“ But  I must  have  my  humble  friends  round  me,”  continued 
Rorie.  ‘‘The  young  people,  too — the  boys  and  girls.  ITl  tell 
you  what,  mother,  we  must  have  a meet.  The  hounds  have 
never  met  here  since  my  grandfather’s  time — fifty  years  ago. 
The  duke’s  stud  groom  was  celling  me  about  it  last  year.  He’s 
a Hampshire  man,  you  know,  born  and  bred  in  the  forest. 
We’ll  have  a meet  and  a hunting  breakfast;  and  it  shall  be  open 
house  for  every  one — liigh  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  gentle  and 
simple.  Don’t  be  frightened,  mother,”  interjected  Rorie,  seeing 
Lady  Jane’s  look  of  horror:  “ we  won’t  do  any  miscluef.  Your 
gardens  shall  be  respected.” 

“ They  are  your  gardens  now,  Roderick.  You  are  sole  master 
here,  and  can  do  what  you  please.” 

“ My  dear  mother,  how  can  you  talk  like  that  ? Do  you  sup- 
pose I shall  ever  forget  wlio  made  the  place  what  it  is  ? The 
gardens  have  been  your  pet  hobby,  and  they  shall  be  your  gar- 
dens to  the  end  of  time.” 

“That  is  very  generous  of  you,  my  dear  Roderick;  but  you 
are  promising  too  much.  When  you  marry,  your  wife  will  be 
mistress  of  Briarwood,  and  it  will  be  necessary  for  me  to  find  a 
new  home.” 

“ I am  in  no  hurry  to  get  married.  It  will  be  half  a dozen 
years  before  I shall  even  think  of  anything  so  desperate.” 

“ I hope  not,  Roderick.  With  your  jDOsition,  and  your  respon- 
sibilities, you  ought  to  marry  young.  Marriage — a suitable  mar- 
riage, that  is  to  say — would  give  you  an  incentive  to  earnestness 
and  ambition.  I want  to  see  you  follow  your  father’s  footsteps; 
I want  you  to  make  a name  by  and  by.” 

“I’m  afraid  it  will  be  a distant  by  and  by,”  said  Rorie,  with  a 
yawn.  “ I don’t  feel  at  all  drawn  toward  the  senate.  I love  the 
country,  my  dogs,  my  horses,  the  free,  fresh  air,  the  stir  and 
movement  of  life,  too  well  to  pen  myself  up  in  a study  and  pore 
over  blue-books,  or  to  waste  the  summer  evening  listening  to  the 
member  for  Little  Pedcllington  laying  down  the  law  about  com- 
bination drainage  or  local  government.  I’m  afraid  it  isn’t  in 
me,  mother,  and  that  youTl  be  disappointed  if  you  set  your  heart 
upon  my  making  a figure  as  a senator.” 

“ I should  like  to  see  you  worthy  of  your  father’s  name,”  Lady 
Jane  said,  vrith  a regretful  sigh. 

“ Providence  hasn’t  made  me  in  the  same  pattern,”  answered 
Rorie.  “ Look  at  my  grandfather’s  portrait  over  the  sideboard, 
in  pink  and  mahogany  tops.  What  a glorious  old  fellow  he 
must  have  been!  You  should  hear  how  the  old  people  talk  of 
him.  I think  I inherit  his  tastes  instead  of  my  father’s.  Per- 
haps, if  I have  a son,  he  will  be  a heaven-born  statesman,  and 
yon  may  have  your  ambition  gratified  by  a grandson.  And 


46 


VIXEN. 


now  about  the  hunting  breakfast.  Would  this  day  week  suit 
you?” 

“ This  is  your  house,  Roderick.  It  is  for  you  to  give  your 
orders.” 

“ Bosh!”  exclaimed  the  son,  impatiently.  “Don’t  I tell  you 
that  you  are  mistress  here,  and  will  be  mistress ” 

“My  dear  Roderick,  let  us  look  things  straight  in  the  face,” 
said  Lady  Jane.  “ If  I were  sole  mistress  here,  there  would  be 
no  hunting  breakfast.  It  is  just  the  very  last  kind  of  entertain- 
ment I should  ever  dream  of  giving.  I am  not  complaining, 
mind.  It  is  natural  enough  for  you  to  like  that  kind  of  thing; 
and,  as  master  of  this  house,  it  is  your  right  to  invite  whomso- 
ever you  please.  I am  quite  happy  that  it  should  be  so,  but  let 
there  be  no  more  talk  about  my  being  mistress  of  this  house. 
That  is  too  absurd.” 

Rorie  felt  all  his  most  generous  impulses  turned  to  a sense  of 
constraint  and  bitterness.  He  could  say  no  more. 

“Will  you  give  me  a list  of  the  people  you  would  like  to  be 
asked  ?”  said  his  mother,  after  rather  an  uncomfortable  silence, 

“I'll  go  and  talk  it  over  with  the  duke,”  answered  Rorie. 
“ He’ll  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing.” 

Rorie  found  the  duke  going  the  round  of  the  loose  boxes,  and 
uncle  and  nephew  spent  an  hour  together  pleasantly,  overhaul- 
ing the  fine  stud  of  hunters  which  the  duke  kept  at  Ashbourne, 
and  going  round  the  paddocks  to  look  at  the  brood-mares  and 
their  foals;  these  latter  being  eccentric  little  animals,  all  head 
and  legs,  which  nestled  close  to  the  mother’s  side  for  a minute,  and 
tlien  took  fright  at  their  own  tails  and  shot  off  across  the  field 
like  a sky-rocket  traveling  horizontally,  or  suddenly  stood  up  on 
end,  and  executed  a wild  waltz  in  mid  air. 

The  duke  and  Roderick  decided  which  among  the  leggy  little 
beasts  had  the  elements  of  future  excellence;  and  after  an  hour’s 
perambulation  of  the  paddocks  went  to  the  house,  where  they 
found  the  duchess  and  Lady  Mabel  in  the  morning-room;  the 
duchess  busy  making  scarlet  cloaks  for  her  school- children,  Lady 
Mabel  reading  a German  critic  on  Shakespeare. 

Here  the  hunt  breakfast  was  fully  discussed.  Everybody  was 
to  be  asked.  The  duchess  put  in  a plea  for  her  school-chiidren. 
It  would  be  such  a treat  for  the  little  things  to  see  the  meet,  and 
their  red  cloaks  and  hoods  would  look  so  pretty  on  the  lawn. 

“ Let  them  come,  by  all  means,”  said  Roderick;  “ your  school 
— half  a dozen  schools.  I’ll  have  three  or  four  tents  rigged  up 
for  refreshments.  There  shall  be  plenty  to  eat  and  drink  for 
everybody.  And  now  I’m  off  to  the  Tempests’,  to  arrange  about 
the  hounds.  The  squire  will  be  pleased,  liknow.” 

“ Of  cours(%”  said  Lady  Mabel,  “ and  the  squire’s  daughter.” 

“Dear  little  thing!”  exclaimed  Rorie,  with  an  elder  brother’s 
tenderness;  “she’ll  be  as  pleased  as  Punch.  You’ll  hunt,  of 
course,  Mabel?” 

“I  don’t  know.  I don’t  shine  in  the  field,  as  Miss  Tempest 
does.” 

‘ ‘ Oh,  but  you  must  come,  Mab.  Tlie  duke  will  find  you  a safe 
mount,” 


VIXEN. 


47 


**  She  has  a hunter  I bred  on  purpose  for  her,”  said  the  duke; 
**but  she’ll  never  be  such  a horsewoman  as  lier  mother.” 

“She  looks  lovely  on  Mazeppa,”  said  Korie;  “and  she  must 
come  to  my  hunting  breakfast.” 

“Of  course,  Rorie,  if  you  wish  I shall  come.” 

Rorie  stayed  to  luncheon,  and  then  went  back  to  Briar  wood  to 
mount  his  horse  to  ride  to  the  Abbey  House. 

The  afternoon  was  drawing  in  when  Rorie  rode  up  to  the  old 
Tudor  porch — a soft,  sunless,  gray  afternoon.  The  door  stood 
open,  and  he  saw  the  glow  of  the  logs  on  the  wide  hearth,  and 
the  squire’s  stalwart  figure  sitting  in  the  great  arm-chair,  lean- 
ing forward  with  a newspaper  across  his  knec^,  and  Vixen  on  a 
stool  at  his  feet,  the  dogs  grouped  about  them. 

“ Shall  I send  my  horse  round  to  the  stables,  squire?”  asked 
Rorie. 

“Do,  my  lad,”  answered  Mr.  Tempest,  ringing  the  bell,  at 
which  summons  a man  appeared  and  took  charge  of  Roderick’s 
tall  chestnut. 

“Been  hunting  to-day,  squire?”  asked  Rorie,  when  he  had 
shaken  hands  with  Mr.  Tempest  and  his  daughter,  and  seated 
himself  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hearth. 

“ No,”  answered  the  squire,  in  a voice  that  had  a duMer  sound 
than  usual.  “ We  had  the  hounds  out  this  morning  at  Hilberry 
Green,  and  there  was  a good  muster.  Jack  Purdy  says;  but  I felt 
out  of  sorts,  and  neither  Vixen  nor  I went.  It  was  a loss  for 
Vixen,  poor  littie  girl!” 

“ It  was  a grief  to  see  you  ill,  papa,”  said  Violet,  nestling 
closer  to  liim. 

She  had  hardly  taken  any  notice  of  Roderick  to-day,  shaking 
hands  with  him  in  an  absent-minded  way,  evidently  full  of 
anxiety  about  her  father.  She  was  very  pale,  and  looked  older 
and  more  womanly  than  when  he  saw  her  last,  Roderick 
thought. 

“I’m  not  ill,  my  dear,” said  the  squire;  “ only  a little  muddled 
and  queer  in  my  head;  been  riding  too  hard  lately,  perhaps.  I 
don’t  get  lighter,  you  know,  Rorie,  and  a quick  run  shakes  me 
more  than  it  used.  Old  Martin,  our  family  doctor,  has  been 
against  my  hunting  for  a long  tinse;  but  I should  like  to  know 
w^hat  kind  of  life  men  of  my  age  would  lead  if  they  listened  to 
the  doctors.  They  wouldn't  let  us  have  a decent  dinner.” 

“ I'm  so  sorry!”  said  Rorie.  “ I came  to  ask  you  a favor,  and 
now  I feel  as  if  I hardly  ought  to  say  anything  about  it,” 

And  then  Roderick  proceeded  to  tell  the  squire  his  views  about 
a meet  at  Briarwood,  and  a hunting  breakfast  for  rich  and 
poor. 

“It  shall  be  done,  my  boy,”  answered  the  squire,  heartily. 
“ It’s  just  the  sort  of  thing  you  ought  to  do  to  make  yourself 
popular.  Lady  Jane  is  a charming  woman,  you  know,  thorough- 
iDred  to  the  finger-nails;  but  she  has  kept  herself  a little  too 
much  to  herself.  There  are  people  old  enough  to  remember 
what  Briarwood  was  in  your  grandfather’s  time.  This  day  week, 
you  say.  I’ll  arrange  everything.  We’ll  have  such  a gathering 
as  hasn’t  been  seen  for  the  last  twenty  years.” 


48 


VIXEN. 


‘‘  Vixen  must  come  with  yon,”  said  Rorie. 

“ Of  course.” 

‘‘If  papa  is  well  and  strong  enough  to  hunt.” 

“ My  love,  there  is  nothing  amiss  with  me— nothing  that  need 
trouble  me  this  day  week.  A man  may  have  a headache,  mayn't 
he,  child,  without  people  making  any  fuss  about  ?” 

I should  like  you  to  see  Dr.  Martin,  papa.  Don’t  you  think 
he  ought  to  see  the  doctor,  Rorie  ? It's  not  natural  for  him  to 
be  ill.” 

“ I’m  not  going  to  be  put  upon  half  rations,  Vixen.  Martin 
would  starve  me;  that's  his  only  idea  of  medical  treatment.  Yes, 
Vixen  shall  come,  Rorie.” 


CHAPTER  VII. 

VIXEN'S  FIRST  SORROW. 

The  morning  of  the  Briar  wood  Meet  dawned  fairly.  Roderick 
watched  the  first  lifting  of  the  darkness  from  his  bedroom  win- 
dow, and  rejoiced  in  the  promise  of  a fine  day.  Tlie  heavens, 
which  had  been  so  unpropitious  upon  his  birthday,  seemed  to 
promise  better  things  to-day.  He  did  not  desire  the  traditional 
huntintT  morning — a southerly  u ind  and  a cloudy  sky.  He  cared 
very  little  about  the  scent  lying  well,  or  the  actual  result  of  the 
day's  sport.  He  wanted  rather  to  see  the  kind,  familiar  faces 
round  him,  the  autumn  sunshine  lighting  up  all  the  glow  and 
color  of  the  picture,  the  red  coats,  the  rich  bay  and  brown  of  the 
horses,  the  verdant  background  cf  lawn  and  shrubberies.  Two 
huge  marquees  had  been  erected  for  the  commonalty — one  for 
the  school-children,  the  other  for  the  villagers.  There  were  long 
tables  in  the  billiard-room  for  the  farming  class,  and  for  the 
quality  there  was  the  horse-shoe  table  in  the  diiiing-rcom,  as  at 
Roderick’s  bii’thday  dinner.  But  on  this  occasion  the  table  was 
decorated  only  with  liardy  ferns  and  flowers.  The  orchids  were 
not  allowed  to  appear. 

Roderick  noticed  the  omission. 

“Why,  where  are  the  thing-nm-tites,  mother?”  he  asked, 
with  some  surprise;  “the  pitcher-plants  and  tropical  what’s- 
its-  names  ?” 

“I  did  not  think  there  was  any  occasion  to  have  them  brought 
out  of  the  houses,  Roderick,”  Lady  Jane  answered,  quietly; 
“ there  is  always  a risk  of  their  being  killed,  or  some  of  your 
sporting  friends  might  be  picking  my  prize  blossoms  to  put  in 
their  button-holes.  Men  who  give  their  minds  to  horses  would 
hardly  appreciate  orchids.” 

“ All  right,  mother.  As  long  as  there  is  plenty  to  eat,  I don’t 
suppose  it  much  matters,”  answered  Rorie. 

He  had  certainly  no  cause  for  complaint  upon  this  score. 
Briarwood  had  been  amply  provisioned  for  an  unlimited  liospi- 
talit3\  The  red  coats  and  gveen  coats  and  bine  coats  and  brown 
coats  came  in  and  out,  slashed  away  at  hoar’s  head  and  truffled 
turkey,  sent  Champagne  corks  fl^ung,  and  added  more  dead  men 
to  the  formidable  corps  of  tall  hock  bottles,  dressed  in  uniform 
brown,  which  the  astonished  butler  ranged  rank  and  file  in  a 


VIXEN. 


49 


lobby  outside  the  dining-room.  He  had  never  seen  this  kind  of 
tiling  at  Briarwood  since  he  had  kept  the  keys  of  the  cellars,  and 
he  looked  upon  this  promiscuous  hospitality  with  a disax>proving 
eye. 

The  duke  supported  his  nephew  admirably,  and  was  hail-fel- 
low-well-met with  everybody.  He  had  always  been  popular  at 
Ashbourne.  It  was  his  own  place,  his  particular  selection, 
bought  with  his  own  money,  improved  under  bis  own  eye,  and 
he  liked  it  better  than  any  of  his  hereditary  seats. 

“ If  I had  a son  like  you,  Eorie,”  he  said,  as  he  stood  beside 
the  young  man  on  the  "gravel  sweep  before  the  hall  door,  wel- 
coming the  new-comers,  “I  should  have  been  a happy  man. 
Well,  I suppose  1 must  be  satisfied  with  a grandson,  but  it’s  a 
hard  thing  that  the  title  ahd  estates  are  to  go  to  that  scamp  of  a 
cousin  of  mine.” 

Roderick,  on  this  particular  morning,  was  a nephew  whom 
any  uncle  might  be  proud  to  own.  His  red  coat  and  buckskins 
became  him;  so  did  his  position  as  host  and  master  at  Briar- 
wood.  His  tall,  erect  figure  showed  to  advantage  amidst  the 
crowd.  His  smile  lit  up  the  dark  sunburned  face  like  sunshine. 
He  had  a kind  word,  a friendly  hand-clasp,  for  everybody — even 
for  gaffers  and  goodies  who  had  hobbled  from  their  village 
shanties  to  see  the  sport,  and  to  get  their  share  of  cold  sirloin 
and  old  October.  He  took  the  feeble  old  creatures  into  the  tent, 
and  saw  that  they  got  a place  ar  the  board. 

Squire  Tempest  and  his  daughter  were  among  the  later  arri- 
vals. The  meet  was  to  be  at  one,  and  they  only  rode  into  the 
grounds  at  half  past  twelve,  when  every  one  else  had  break- 
fasted. Mrs.  Tempest  had  not  come.  The  entertainment  was 
much  too  early  for  a lady  who  never  left  her  rooms  till  after 
noon. 

Vixen  looked  lovely  in  her  smart  little  habit.  It  was  not  the 
Lincoln-green  with  the  brass  buttons  which  Lady  Mabel  had 
laughed  at  a year  ago.  To-day  Miss  Tempest  wore  a dark 
brown  habit,  molded  to  the  full  erect  figure,  with  a narrow  rim 
of  white  at  the  throat,  a little  felt  hat  of  the  same  dark  brown, 
with  a brown  feather,  long  white  gauntlets,  and  a whip  with  an 
ivory  handle. 

The  golden  bay’s  shining  coat  matched  Violet's  shining  hair. 
It  was  the  prettiest  picture  in  the  world,  the  little  rider  in  dark 
brown  on  the  bright  bay  horse,  the  daintily  quilted  saddle,  the 
gauntleted  hands  playing  so  lightly  with  the  horse’s  velvet 
mouth — horse  and  rider  devotedlv  attached  to  each  other. 

How  do  you  like  him  ?”  asked  Vixen,  directly  she  and  Rorie 
had  shaken  hands.  ‘ Isn't  he  absolutely  lovely?” 

“ Absolutely  lovely,”  said  Rorie,  patting  the  hone’s  shoulder 
and  looking  at  the  rider, 

^ “ Papa  gave  him  to  me  on  my  last  birthday.  I was  to  have 
ridden  Titmouse  another  year;  but  I got  the  brush  one  day  after 
a hard  run,  when  almost  every  bodyelse  was  left  behind,  and 
papa  said  I should  have  a horse.  Poor  Titmouse  is  put  into  a 
basket-chaise.  Isn’t  it  sad  for  him?’ 

“ Awfully  humiliating,” 


50 


VIXEN. 


Lady  Mabel  was  close  by  on  her  chestnut  thorough-bred,  se^ 
verely  costumed  in  darkest  blue  and  chimney-pot  hat. 

I don’t  think  you’ve  ever  met  my  cousin,”  said  Korie. 

Mabel,  this  is  Miss  Tempest,  whom  you’ve  heard  me  talk  about. 
Miss  Tempest,  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne.” 

Violet  Tempest  gave  a startled  look  and  blushed  crimson. 
Then  the  two  girls  bowed  and  smiled;  a constrained  smile  on 
Vixen’s  part,  a prim  and  chilly  smile  from  Lady  Mabel. 

“ I want  you  two  to  be  awful  good  friends,”  said  Rorie;  “ and 
when  you  come  out,  Vixen,  Lady  Mabel  will  take  you  under  her 
wing.  She  knows  everybody,  and  the  right  thing  to  be  done  on 
every  occasion.” 

Vixen  turned  from  red  to  pale,  and  said  nothing.  Lady  Mabel 
looked  at  the  distant  blue  line  of  the  Wight,  and  murmured  that 
she  would  be  happy  to  be  of  use  to  Miss  Tempest  if  ever  they 
met  in  London.  Rorie  felt  somehow  that  it  was  not  encourag- 
ing. Vixen  stole  a glance  at  her  rival.  Yes,  she  was  very 
pretty — a delicate  patrician  beauty  that  Vixen  had  never  seen 
before.  No  wonder  Rorie  was  in  love  with  her.  Where  else 
could  he  have  seen  anything  so  exquisite  ? It  was  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  that  these  cousins  should  be  fond  of 
each  other  and  engaged  to  be  married.  Vixen  wondered  that 
the  thing  had  never  occurred  to  her  as  inevitable — that  it  should 
have  come  upon  her  as  a blow  at  the  last. 

“ I think  Rorie  ought  to  have  told  me,”  she  said  to  herself. 
“ He  is  like  my  brother,  and  a brother  would  not  hide  his  love 
affairs  from  his  sister.  It  was  rather  mean  of  Rorie.” 

The  business  of  the  day  began  presently.  Neither  Vixen  nor 
the  squire  dismounted.  They  had  breakfasted  at  home;  and 
Vixen,  who  did  not  care  much  for  Lady  Jane  Vawdrey,  was  glad 
to  escape  with  no  further  communication  than  a smile  and  a 
bow.  At  a quarter  past  one  they  were  all  riding  away  toward 
the  forest,  and  presently  the  serious  business  began. 

Vixen  and  her  father  were  riding  side  by  side. 

‘‘  How  pale  you  look,  papal  Is  your  head  bad  again  to-day 

‘‘  Yes,  my  dear.  I’m  afraid  I’ve  started  a chronic  headache. 
But  the  fresh  air  will  blow  it  away  presently,  I dare  say. 
You’re  not  looking  overwell  yourself,  Vixen.  Wiiat  have  you 
done  with  your  roses  ?” 

‘‘I— I don’t  care  much  about  hunting  to-day,  papa,”  said 
Violet,  sudden  tears  rushing  into  her  eyes.  * Shall  we  go  hc'me 
together?  You’re  not  well,  and  I'm  not  enjoying  myself.  No- 
body wants  us  either,  so  why  should  we  stay  ?” 

Rorie  was  a little  way  behind  the  taking  care  of  Lady 
Mabel,  whose  slim-legged  chestnut  wei  through  as  many  ma- 
neuvers as  if  he  had  been  doing  the  manege  business  in  a circus, 
and  got  over  the  ground  very  slowly.” 

“ Nonsense,  child!”  Go  back!  I should  think  not!  We  shall 
find  down  in  Dingley  Bottom,  I dare  say,  and  get  a capital  run 
across  the  hills  to  Beaulieu.” 

They  found  just  as  the  squire  had  anticipated,  and  after  that 
there  was  a hard  run  for  the  next  hour  and  a quarter.  Roderick 
was  at  the  heel  of  the  hunt  all  the  time,  opening  gates  and 


VIXEN. 


51 


keeping  his  cousin  out  of  bogs  and  dangers  of  all  kinds.  They 
killed  at  last  on  a wild  bit  of  common  near  Beaulieu,  and  there 
were  only  a few  in  at  the  death,  amongst  them  Vixen  on  her 
fast  young  bay,  flushed  with  excitement  and  triumph  by  this 
time,  and  forgetting  all  her  troubles  in  the  delight  of  winning 
one  of  the  pads.  Mrs  Millington,  the  famous  huntress  from  the 
shires,  was  there  to  claim  the  brush. 

“How  tired  you  look,  iDapal”  said  Vixen,  as  they  rode  quietly 
homeward. 

“A  little  done  up,  my  dear,  but  a good  dinner  will  set  me  all 
right  again.  It  was  a capital  run,  and  your  horse  behaved 
beautifully.  I don’t  think  I made  a bad  choice  for  you.  Rorie 
and  his  cousin  were  miles  behind,  I dare  say.  Pretty  girl,  and  sits 
her  horse  like  a picture,  but  she  can’t  ride.  We  shall  meet  them 
going  home,  perhaps.” 

A mile  or  two  further  on  they  met  Roderick  alone.  His  cousin 
had  gone  home  with  her  father. 

“It  was  rather  a bore  losing  the  run,”  he  said,  as  he  turned 
his  horse’s  head  and  rode  by  "V  ixen ; “ but  I was  obliged  to  take 
care  of  my  cousin.” 

One  of  the  squire’s  tenants,  a seventeen-stone  farmer,  on  a 
stout  gray  cob,  overtook  them  presently,  and  Mr.  Tempest  rode 
on  by  his  side,  talking  agricultural  talk  about  overfed  beasts 
and  cattle  shows — the  last  popular  form  of  cruelty  to  animals. 

Roderick  and  Violet  were  alone,  riding  slowly  side  by  side  in 
the  darkening  grg  y,  bet  ween  woods  where  solitary  robins  car- 
oled sweetly,  or  the  rare  gurgle  of  the  thrmsh  sounded  now  and 
then  from  thickets  of  beech  and  holly. 

A faint  color  came  back  to  Vixen’s  cheek.  She  was  very 
angry  with  her  playfellow  for  his  want  of  confidence,  for  his  un- 
friendly reserve.  Yet  tliis  was  the  one  happy  hour  of  her  day. 
There  had  been  a flavor  of  dcsolateness  and  abandonment  in  all 
the  rest. 

“ I hope  you  enjoyed  the  run,”  said  Rorie. 

“ I don’t  think  you  can  care  much  whether  we  did  or  didn’t,” 
retorted  Vixen,  shrouding  her  personality  in  a vague  plural. 
“If  you  had  cared  you  would  have  been  with  us.  Sultan”— 
meaning  the  taU  chestnut — “must  have  felt  cruelly  humiliated 
by  being  kept  so  far  behind.” 

“If  a man  could  be  in  two  places  at  once,  half  of  me — ^the 
better  half  of  me — would  have  been  with  you.  Vixen;  but  I was 
bound  to  take  care  of  my  cousin.  I had  insisted  upon  her  com- 
ing.” 

“ Of  course,”  answered  Vixen,  with  a little  toss  of  her  head; 
“ it  would  have  been  quite  wrong  if  she  had  been  absent.” 

They  rode  on  in  silence  for  a little  while  after  this.  Vixen  was 
longing  to  say,  “Rorie,  you  have  treated  me  very  badly.  You 
ought  to  have  told  me  you  were  going  to  be  married.”  But 
something  restrained  her.  She  patted  her  horse’s  neck,  listened 
to  the  lonely  robins,  and  said  not  a word.  The  squire  and  his 
tenant  were  a hundred  ya-rds  ahead,  talking  loudly. 

rresently  they  came  to  a point  at  which  their  roads  par^^^d, 
but  Rorie  stiU  rode  on  by  Vixen, 


52 


VIXEN. 


‘‘  Inn’t  that  your  nearest  way  ?”  asked  Vixen,  pointing  down 
the  cross-road  with  the  ivory  handle  of  her  whip. 

“ I am  not  going  the  nearest  way.  I am  going  to  the  Abbey 
Honse  with  you.” 

“ I wouldn’t  be  so  rude  as  to  say  don’t,  but  I think  poor  Sultan 
must  be  tired.” 

“ Sultan  shall  have  an  off  day  to-morrow.” 

They  went  into  an  oak  plantation,  where  a broad  opening  led 
from  one  side  of  an  in  closure  to  the  other.  The  wood  had  a 
mysterious  look  in  the  late  afternoon,  when  the  shadows  were 
thickening  under  the  tall,  thin  trees.  There  was  an  all-pervad- 
ing ghostly  grayness  as  in  a shadowy  under-world.  They  rode 
Silently  over  the  thick,  wet  carpet  of  fallen  leaves,  the  horses 
starting  a little  now  and  then  at  the  aspect  of  a newly-barked 
trunk  lying  white  across  the  track.  They  were  silent,  having, 
in  sooth,  very  little  to  say  to  each  other  just  at  this  time.  Vixen 
was  nursing  her  wrathful  feelings,  Eoriefelt  that  his  future  was 
confused  and  obscure.  He  ought  to  do  something  with  his  life, 
perhaps,  as  his  mother  had  so  warmly  urged.  But  his  soul  was 
stirred  by  no  ambitious  promptings. 

They  were  within  two  hundred  yards  of  the  gate  at  the  end  of 
the  inclosure,  when  Vixen  gave  a sudden  cry. 

“ Did  papa’s  horse  slip?”  she  asked.  “ Look  how  he  sways  in 
his  saddle?” 

Another  instant,  and  the  squire  reeled  forward,  and  fell  head- 
foremost across  his  horse’s  shoulder.  The  fail  was  so  sudden 
and  so  heavy  that  the  horse  fell  with  him,  and  then  scrambled 
up  on  to  his  feet  again  affrighted,  swung  himself  round,  and 
rushed  past  Eoderick  and  Vixen  along  the  splashing  track. 

Vixen  was  off  her  horse  in  a moment,  and  had  flown  to  her 
father’s  side.  He  lay  like  a log,  face  downward  upon  the  sod- 
dened  leaves  just  inside  the  gate.  The  farmer  had  dismounted 
and  was  stooping  over  him,  bridle  in  hand,  with  a frightened 
face. 

‘ “ Oh,  what  is  it  ?”  cried  Violet,  frantically.  ‘‘Did  the  horse 

throw  him? — Bullfinch,  his  favorite  horse.  Is  he  much  hurt? 
Oh,  help  me  to  lift  him  up— help  me — help  me!” 

Eorie  was  by  her  side  by  this  time,  kneeling  jdown  with  her 
heside  the  prostrate  squire,  trying  to  raise  the  heavy  figure  which 
lay  like  lead  across  his  arm. 

“ It  wasn’t  the  horse,  miss,”  said  the  farmer.  “ I’m  afraid  it’s 
a seizure.” 

“A  fit!”  cried  Vixen.  “Oh,  papa!  papa!  — darling  — dar- 
ling  ” 

She  was  sobbing,  clinging  to  him,  trembling  like  a leaf,  and 
turning  a white,  stricken  face  up  toward  Eoderick. 

“ Do  something  to  help  him — for  God’s  sake,  do  something!” 
she  cried.  “You  won’t  let  him  lie  there  and  die  for  want  of 
help?  Some  brandy — something!”  she  gasped,  stretching  out 
her  trembhng  hand. 

The  farmer  had  anticipated  her  tliought.  He  had  taken  his 
fiask  from  the  saddle  pocket,  and  was  kneeling  down  bv  the 
squire.  Eoderick  had  lifted  the  heavy  head,  and  turned  the 


VIXEN. 


sa 

ghastly  face  to  the  waning  light.  He  tried  to  force  a little 
brandy  between  the  livid  lips,  but  vainly. 

“ For  God’s  sake  get  her  away!’’  he  whispered  to  John  Wim- 
ble, the  farmer.  ‘‘It’s  all  over  with  him.” 

“Come  a\^ay  with  me,  my  dpar  Miss  Tempest,”  said  Wimble, 
trying  to  raise  Violet  from  her  knees  beside  the  squire.  She 
was  gazing  iuto  that  awful  face  distractedly,  half  divining  its 
solemn  meaning,  yet  watching  for  the  kind  eyes  to  open  and  look 
at  her  again.  “ Come  away  with  me,  and  we  will  get  a doctor 
Mr.  Vawdry  will  take  care  of  your  father.” 

“You  go  for  the  doctor,”  she  answered,  firmly.  I’ll  stay 
with  papa.  Take  my  horse;  he’s  faster  than  yours.  Oh,  he’ll 
carry  you  well  enough.  You  don’t  know  how  strong  he  is.  Go, 
quick — quick — Dr.  Martin,  at  Lyndhurst — it’s  a long  way,  but 
you  must  get  him.  Papa  will  recover,  and  be  able  to  ride  home, 
perhaps,  before  you  can  get  back  to  us,  but  go!  go!” 

“You  go  for  the  doctor,  miss;  your  horse  will  carry  you  fast 
enough.  He’d  never  carry  me,  and  my  cob  is  dead  beat.  You 
go,  and  Mr.  Vaudrey  will  go  with  you.  I’ll  take  care  of  the 
squire.” 

Violet  looked  from  one  to  the  other  helplessly. 

“ I'd  rather  stay  with  papa,”  she  said.  “Yougo,  Eorie — yes 
—go!  go!  I’ll  stay  with  papa.” 

She  crouched  down  beside  the  prostrate  figure  on  the  damp, 
marshy  gromid,  took  the  heavy  head  on  her  lap,  and  looked  up 
at  the  two  men  with  a pale,  set  face  which  indicated  a resolve 
that  neither  of  them  was  strong  enough  to  overrule.  They  tried 
their  utmost  to  persuade  her,  but  in  vain.  She  was  fixed  as  a 
new  Niobe — a stony  image  ci  young  despair.  So  Eoderick 
mounted  his  horse  and  rode  off  to  Lyndhurst,  and  honest  Jack 
Wimble  tied  the  other  two  horses  to  the  gate,  and  took  his  stand 
beside  them  a few  paces  from  those  two  motionless  figures  on 
the  ground,  patiently  waiting  for  the  issue  of  this  bitter  hour. 

It  was  one  of  the  longest,  weariest,  saddest  hours  that  ever 
youth  and  hope  lived  through.  There  was  an  awful  heart-sick- 
ening fear  in  Violet’s  mind,  but  she  gave  it  no  definite  shape. 
She  would  not  say  to  herself.  My  father  is  dead.  The  position 
in  which  he  was  lying  hampered  her  arms  so  that  she  could  not 
reach  out  her  hand  to  lay  it  upon  his  heart.  She  bent  her  face 
down  to  his  lips. 

Oh  God!  not  a flutter  stirred  upon  her  soft  cheek  as  she  laid  it 
against  the  open  mouth.  The  lower  jaw  had  fallen  in  an  awful- 
looking  way;  but  Violet  had  seen  her  father  look  like  that  some- 
times as  he  slept,  with  open  mouth,  before  the  hall  fire.  It 
might  be  only  a Jong  swoon,  a suspension  of  consciousness.  Dr. 
Martin  would  come  presently — oh,  how  long,  how  long,  the  time 
seemed! — and  make  all  things  right. 

The  crescent  moon  shone  silver  pale  above  that  gray  wood. 
The  barked  trunks  gleamed  white  and  phantom-like  in  the 
gathering  dark.  Owls  began  to  hoot  in  the  distance,  frogs  were 
awaking  near  at  hand,  belated  rabbits  flitted  ghost-like  across 
the  track.  All  nature  seemed  of  one  gray  or  shadowy  hue — sil- 
Tery  where  the  moonbeams  fell. 


54 


VIXEN. 


The  October  air  was  chill  and  penetrating.  There  was  a dull 
aching  in  Violet’s  limbs  from  the  weight  of  her  burden,  but  she 
was  hardly  conscious  of  physical  pain.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  been  sitting  there  for  hours  waiting  for  the  doctor’s 
help.  She  thought  the  night  must  have  nearly  worn  itself 
out. 

“ Dr.  Martin  could  not  have  been  at  home,”  she  said,  speaking 
for  the  first  time  since  Eoderick  rode  away.  “Mr.  Vawdrey 
would  fetch  some  one  else,  surely.” 

“ My  dear  young  lady,  he  hasn’t  had  time  to  ride  to  Lyndhurst 
yet.” 

“ Not  yet?”  cried  Vixen,  despairingly — “ not  yet?  And  it  has 
been  so  long.  Papa  is  getting  so  cold.  The  chill  will  be  so  bad 
for  him.” 

“ Worse  for  you,  miss.  I do  wish  you’d  let  me  take  you 
home.” 

“ And  leave  papa  here — alone — ^unconscious!  How  can  you  be 
so  cruel  as  to  think  of  such  a thing  ?” 

“ Dear  Miss  Tempest,  we’re  not  doing  him  any  good,  and  you 
may  be  getting  a chill  that  will  be  nigh  your  death.  If  you 
would  only  go  home  to  your  mamma,  now— it’s  hard  upon  her 
not  to  know — she’ll  be  fretting  about  you,  I dare  say.” 

“Don’t  waste  your  breath  talking  to  me,”  cried  Vixen,  indig- 
nantly; “ I shall  not  leave  this  spot  till  papa  goes  with  me.” 

They  waited  for  another  quarter  of  an  hour  in  dismal  silence. 
The  horses  gnawed  the  lower  branches  of  the  trees,  and  gave  oc- 
casional evidence  of  their  impatience.  Bullfinch  had  gone  home 
to  his  stable,  no  doubt.  They  were  only  about  a mile  and  a half 
from  the  Abbey  House. 

Hark!  what  was  that?  The  splish-splash  of  horses’ hoofs  on 
the  soft  turf.  Another  minute,  and  Eorie  rode  up  to  the  gate 
with  a stranger. 

“I  was  lucky  enough  to  meet  this  gentleman,”  he  said — “a 
doctor  from  Southampton,  who  was  at  the  hunt  to-day.  Violet 
dear,  will  you  let  me  take  you  home  now,  and  leave  the  doctor 
and  Mr.  Wimble  with  your  father  ?” 

“ No,”  answered  Vixen,  decisively. 

The  strange  doctor  knelt  down  and  looked  at  his  patient.  He 
was  a middle-aged  man,  grave-looking,  with  iron-gray  hair — a 
man  who  impressed  Vixen  with  a sense  of  power  and  authority. 
She  looked  at  him  silently,  with  a despairing,  appealing  look 
that  thrilled  him,  used  as  he  was  to  such  looks.  He  made  his 
examination  quietly,  saying  not  a word,  and  keeping  his  face 
hidden.  Then  he  turned  to  the  two  men  who  were  standing 
close  by,  watching  him  anxiously.  “ You  must  get  some  kind 
of  litter  to  carry  him  home,”  he  whispered. 

And  then  with  gentle  firmness,  with  strong  irresistible  hands, 
he  separated  the  living  from  the  dead,  lifted  Violet  from  the 
ground,  and  led  her  to  her  horse. 

“You  must  let  Mr.  Vawdrey  take  you  home,  my  dear  young 
lady,”  he  said.  “ You  can  do  nothing  here.” 

“ But  you — you  can  do  something,”  sobbed  Violet;  “ you  will 
bring  him  back  to  life — you — 


VIXEN. 


65 


T will  do  all  that  can  be  done,”  answered  the  doctor  gently. 

His  tone  told  her  more  than  his  words.  She  gave  one  wild 
shriek,  and  threw  herself  down  beside  her  dead  father.  A clond 
came  over  the  distracted  brain,  and  she  lay  there  senseless.  The 
doctor  and  Rorie  lifted  her  up  and  carried  her  to  the  gate,  wher« 
her  horse  was  waiting.  The  doctor  forced  a little  brandy  through 
the  locked  lips,  and  between  them  Rorie  and  he  placed  her  in  the 
saddle.  She  had  just  consciousness  enough  by  this  time  to  hold 
the  reins  mechanically  and  to  sit  upright  on  her  horse;  and  thus 
led  by  Roderick  she  rode  slowly  back  to  the  home  that  was  never 
any  more  to  be  the  same  home  that  she  had  known  and  lived  in 
through  the  joyous  sixteen  years  of  her  life.  All  things  were  to 
be  different  to  her  henceforward.  The  joy  of  life  was  broken 
short  off,  like  a flower  snapped  from  its  stem. 


CHAPTER  YIIT. 

A HOUSE  OF  MOURNING. 

There  was  sorrow  at  the  Abbey  House  deeper  and  wilder  than 
had  entered  within  those  doors  for  many  a year.  To  Mrs.  Tem- 
pest the  shock  of  her  husband’s  death  was  overwhelming.  Her 
easy,  luxurious,  monotonous  life  hac.  been  very  sweet  to  her,  but 
her  husband  had  been  the  dearest  part  of  her  life.  She  had  taken 
little  trouble  to  express  her  love  for  him,  quite  willing  that  be 
should  take  it  for  granted.  She  had  been  self-indulgent  and 
vain,  seeking  her  wn  ease,  sper'^ding  money  and  care  on  her 
own  adornment;  but  she  had  never  forgotten  to  make  the 
squire’s  life  pleasant  to  him  also.  Newly  wedded  lovers  in  the 
fair  honeymoon  stage  of  existence  could  not  have  been  fonder 
of  each  other  than  the  middle-aged  squire  and  his  somewhat 
faded  wife.  His  loving  eyes  had  never  seen  time’s  changes  in 
Pamela  Tempest’s  pretty  face,  the  lessening  brightness  of  tlie 
eyes,  the  duller  tints  of  the  complexion,  the  loss  of  youth’s 
glow  and  glory.  To  him  she  had  always  appeared  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  world. 

And  now  the  fondly  indulged  wife  could  do  nothing  but*  lie 
on  her  sofa  and  shed  a rain  of  incessant  tears,  and  drink  strong 
tea,  which  had  lost  its  power  to  comfort  or  exhilarate.  She 
would  see  no  one.  She  could  not  even  be  roused  to  interest  her- 
self in  the  mourning,  though,  with  a handsome  widow,  Pauline 
thought  that  ought  to  be  all-important. 

There  are  so  many  styles  of  widows’  caps  now,  ma’am.  You 
really  ought  to  see  them,  and  choose  for  yourself,”  urged  Pau- 
line— an  honest  young  Englishwoman,  who  had  begun  life  as 
Polly,  but  whom  Mrs.  Tempest  had  elevated  into  Pauline, 

y What  does  it  matter,  Pauline?  Take  anything  you  like.  He 
will  not  be  there  to  see.” 

Here  the  ready  tears  flowed  afresh.  That  was  the  bitterest  of 
all.  That  she  should  look  nice  in  her  mourning,  and  Edward  not 
be  there  to  praise  her!  In  her  feebleness  she  could  not  imagine 
life  without  him.  She  would  hear  his  step  at  her  door  surely, 
his  manly  voice  in  the  corridor.  She  would  awake  from  this 
awful  dream,  in  which  he  was  not*  and  find  him,  and  fall  into 


66  VIXEN. 

his  arms,  and  sob  out  her  grief  upon  his  breast,  and  tell  him  all 
she  had  suffered. 

That  was  the  dominant  feeling  in  this  weak  soul.  Ho  could 
not  be  gone. 

Yet  the  truth  came  back  upon  her  in  hideous  distinctness 
every  now  and  then — came  back  suddenly  and  awfully,  like  tho 
swift  revelation  of  a desolate,  plague-stricken  scene  under  a 
lightning  flash.  He  was  gone.  He  was  lying  in  his  coffin  in 
the  dear  old  Tudor  hall  where  they  liad  sat  so  coziiy.  Those  dis- 
mal reiterated  strokes  of  the  funeral  bell  meant  that  his  burial 
was  at  hand.  They  were  moving  the  coffin  already,  perhaps. 
His  place  knew  him  no  more. 

She  tottered  to  the  darkened  window,  lifted  the  edge  of  the 
blind,  and  looked  out.  The  funeral  train  was  moving  slowdy 
along  the  carriage  sweep,  through  the  winding  shrubberiedroad. 
How  long  and  black  and  solemnly  splendid  the  procession 
looked!  Everybody  had  loved  and  respected  him.  It  was  a 
grand  funeral.  Tlie  thought  of  the  general  homage  gave  a faint 
thrill  of  comfort  to  the  widow’s  heart. 

“My  noble  husband,”  she  ejaculated,  “ who  could  help  loving 
him  1” 

It  seemed  to  her  only  a little  while  ago  that  she  had  driven  up 
to  the  Tudor  porch  for  the  first  time  after  her  happy  honey- 
moon, when  she  was  in  the  bloom  of  youth  and  beauty,  and  life 
was  like  a school-giiTs  happy  dream. 

“ How  short  life  is!”  she  sobbed;  “ how  cruelly  short  for  those 
who  are  happy!” 

With  Violet  grief  was  no  less  passionate;  but  it  did  not  find  its 
sole  vent  in  tears.  The  stronger  soul  was  in  rebellion  against 
Providence.  She  kept  aloof  from  her  mother  in  this  time  of 
aorrow.  What  could  they  say  to  each  other?  They  could  only 
cry  together.  Vi(^let  shut  herself  in  her  room  and  refused  to 
see  any  one  except  patient  Miss  M’Croke,  who  was  always  bring- 
ing her  cups  of  tea  or  basins  of  arrowroot,  trying  to  coax  her  to 
take  some  kind  of  nourishment,  dabbing  her  hot  forehead  with 
eau-de-Cologne;  doing  all  those  fussy  little  kindnesses  which  are 
so  acutely  aggravating  in  a great  sorrow. 

“ Let  me  lie  on  the  ground,  alone,  and  think  of  him  and  wail 
for  liim/’ 

That  is  what  Violet  Tempest  would  have  said  if  she  could 
have  expressed  her  desire  clearly. 

Roderick  Vawdrey,  went  back  to  the  Abbey  Plouse  after  the 
funeral,  and  contrived  to  see  Miss  !M’Croke,  who  was  full  cf 
sympathy  for  everjdoody. 

“ Do  let  me  see  Violet,  that’s  a dear  creature,”  he  said.  “ 1 
can’t  tell  you  how  unhappy  I am  about  her.  I can’t  get  her 
face  out  of  my  thouglits,  as  I saw  it  that  dreadful  night  when 
I led  her  horse  home — the  wild,  sad  eyes,  the  white  lips.” 

“ She  is  not  fit  to  see  any  one,”  said  Miss  M’Croke;  “ but  per- 
haps it  might  rouse  her  a little  to  see  you.” 

Miss  M’Croke  had  an  idea  that  all  mourners  ought  to  be 
roused;  that  mucii  indulgence  in  grief  for  the  dead  was  repre- 
hensible. 


VIXEJ^. 


57 

“ Yes,”  answered  Rorie,  eagerly;  “ she  would  see  me,  I know. 
We  are  like  brother  and  sister.” 

“ Come  into  the  school-room,”  said  the  governess,  “and  111 
see  what  I can  do.” 

The  school-room  was  Vixen’s  own  particular  den,  and  was 
not  a bit  like  the  popular  idea  of  a school-room. 

It  was  a pretty  little  room,  with  a high  wooden  dado  painted 
pale  green,  and  a high-art  paper  of  amazing  ugliness,  with  brown 
and  red  storks  on  a dull  green  ground.  The  high-art  paper  was 
enlivened  with  horsy  caricatures  by  Leech,  and  a menagerie  of 
pottery  animals  on  various  brackets. 

A pot  or  a pan  had  been  stuck  into  every  corner  that  would 
hold  one.  There  were  desks  and  boxes  and  wicker-work  baskets 
of  every  shape  and  kind,  a dwarf -oak  book-case  on  either  side 
of  the  fireplace,  v\  ith  the  books  all  at  sixes  and  sevens,  leaning 
against  each  other  as  if  they  were  intoxicated.  The  broad  man- 
tel-piece presented  a confusion  of  photographs,  cups  and  saucers, 
violet  jars,  and  Dresden  shepherdesses.  Over  the  quaint  old 
Venetian  glass  dangled  Vixen’s  first  trophy,  the  fox's  brush,  tied 
with  a scarlet  ribbon.  Tliero  were  no  birds,  or  squirrels,  or  dor- 
mice, for  Vixen  was  too  fond  of  the  animal  creation  to  shut  l:er 
favorites  up  in  cages;  but  there  was  a black  bear-skin  spread  in 
a corner  for  Argus  to  lie  upon.  In  the  wide  low  windows  there 
were  two  banks  of  bright  autumn  flowers,  pompons  and  dwarf 
roses,  mignonette  and  veronica. 

Miss  M’Croke  drew  up  the  blind  and  stirred  the  fire. 

“ I’ll  go  and  ask  her  to  come,”  she  said.' 

“ Do,  like  a dear,”  said  Rorie. 

He  paced  the  room  while  she  was  gone,  full  of  sadness.  He 
had  been  very  fond  of  the  squire,  and  that  awfully  sudden 
death,  an  apopleptic  seizure,  instantaneous  as  a thunder-bolt,  had 
impressed  him  very  painfully.  It  was  his  first  experience  of 
the  kind,  and  it  was  infinitely  terrible  to  him.  It  seemed  to 
him  a long  time  before  Vixen  appeared,  and  then  the  door 
opened  and  a slim  black  figure  came  in,  a white  fixed  face 
looked  at  him  piteously  with  tearless  eyes,  made  big  by  a great 
grief.  She  came  leaning  on  Miss  M’Croke,  as  if  she  could 
hardly  walk  unaided.  The  face  was  stranger  to  him  than  an 
altogether  unknown  face.  It  was  Violet  Tempest  with  all  the 
vivid,  joyous  life  gone  out  of  her,  like  a lamp  that  is  extin- 
guished. " 

. He  took  her  cold  trembling  hands  and  drew  her  gently  to  a 
chair,  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

“I  wanted  so  much  to  see  you,  dear,”  he  said,  “to  tell  you 
how^  sorry  we  all  are  for  you — my  mother,  my  aunt,  and 
cousin ’’—Violet  gave  a faint  shiver — “all  of  us.  The  duke 
liked  your  dear  father  so  much.  It  was  quite  a shock  to  him.” 

“You  are  very  good,”  Violet  said,  mechanically. 

She  sat  by  him,  pale  and  still  as  marble,  looking  at  the  ground. 
His  voice  and  presence  impressed  her  but  faintly,  like  something 
a long  way  oifc  She  was  thinking  of  her  dead  father.  She  saw 
nothing  but  that  one  awful  figure.  They  bad  laid  him  in  his 
grave  by  this  time.  The  cold  cruel  earth  had  fallen  upon  him 


68 


VIXEN. 


and  hidden  him  forever  from  the  light;  he  was  shut  away  for- 
ever from  the  fair,  glad  world;  he  who  had  been  so  bright  and 
cheerful,  whose  presence  had  carried  gladness  everywhere. 

“ Is  tlie  funeral  quite  over?”  she  asked,  presently,  without  lift- 
ing her  heavy  eyelids. 

“Yes,  dear.  It  was  a noble  funeral.  Everybody  was  ibere 
^rich  and  poor.  Everybody  loved  him.” 

“ The  poor  most  of  all,”  she  said.  I know  how  good  he  was 
to  them.” 

Somebody  knocked  at  the  door  and  asked  something  of  Miss 
M’Croke,  which  obliged  the  governess  to  leave  her  pupil.  Rod- 
erick was  glad  at  her  departure,  That  substantial  figure  in  its 
new  black  dress  had  been  a hinderance  to  freedom  of  conver- 
sation. 

Miss  M’Croke’s  absence  did  not  loosen  Violet’s  tongue.  She 
sat  looking  at  the  ground,  and  was  dumb.  That  silent  grief  was 
very  av/ful  to  Roderick. 

“ Violet,  why  don’t  you  talk  to  me  about  your  sorrow  ?”  he 
said.  “ Surely  you  can  trust  me — your  friend — your  brother!” 

That  last  word  stung  her  into  speech.  The  dark  eyes  shot  a 
swift  angry  glance  at  him. 

“You  have  no  right  to  call  yourself  that,”  she  said;  “you 
have  not  treated  me  like  a sister.” 

“ How  not,  dear  ?” 

“ You  should  have  told  me  about  your  engagement— that  you 
were  going  to  marry  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne.” 

“Should  1?’'  exclaimed  Rorie,  amazed.  “If  I had.  I should 
have  told  you  an  arrant  falsehood.  I am  not  engaged  to  my 
cousin  Mabel.  I am  not  going  to  marry  her.” 

“Oh,  it  doesn’t  matter  in  the  least  whether  you  are  or  not,” 
returned  Vixen,  with  a weary  air.  “Papa  is  dead,  and  trifles 
like  that  can’t  affect  me  now.  But  I felt  it  unkind  of  you  at  the 
time  I heard  it.” 

“And  where  and  how  did  you  hear  this  wonderful  news. 
Vixen?”  asked  Rorie,  very  pleased  to  get  her  thoughts  away 
from  her  grief,  were  it  only  for  a minute. 

“ Mamma  told  me  that  everybody  said  you  were  engaged,  and 
that  the  fact  was  quite  obvi  uSc’' 

“What  everybody  says,  an  i what  is  quite  obvious,  is  very 
8f‘ldom  true,  Violet.  You  may  take  that  for  a first  principle  in 
worldly  philosphy.  I am  not  engaged  to  any  one.  I have  no 
thought  of  getting  married — for  tlie  next  three  years.” 

Vixen  received  this  information  wdth  chilling  silence.  She 
would  have  been  very  glad  to  near  it,  perhaps,  a week  ago — at 
which  time  slie  had  found  it  a sore  thing  to  think  of  her  old 
play  fellow  as  Lady  Mabe.  s affianced  husband — but  it  mattered 
nothing  now.  The  larger  grief  had  swallowed  up  all  smaller 
grievances.  Roderick  Vawdrey  had  receded  into  remote  dis- 
tance. He  was  no  one,  nothing,  in  a world  that  was  suddenly 
emptied  of  all  delight. 

“ What  ar'  you  '’•oing  to  do,  dear  ?”  asked  Roderick,  presently. 
“ If  you  shut  yourself  up  in  your  room  and  abandon  yourself  to 


VIXEN. 


59 


grief,  you  will  make  yourself  very  ill.  You  ought  to  go  away 
somewhere  for  a little  while.” 

Forever!”  exclaimed  Vixen,  passionately.  “ Do  you  think  I 
can  ever  endure  this  dear  home  without  papa?  There  is  not  a 
thing  I look  at  that  doesn’t  speak  to  me  of  him.  The  dogs,  the 
horses — T almost  hate  them  for  reminding  me  so  cruelly.  Yes, 
we  are  going  away  at  once,  I believe.  Mamma  said  so  when  1 
saw  her  this  morning.” 

“ Your  poor  mamma!  How  does  she  bear  her  grief  ?” 

**  Oh,  she  cries,  and  cries,  and  (Ties,”  said  Vixen,  rather  con- 
temptuously. ‘‘I  think  it  comforts  her  to  cry.  I can’t  cry.  I 
am  like  the  dogs.  If  I did  not  restrain  myself  with  ali  my 
might  I should  howl.  I should  like  to  lie  on  the  ground  outside 
his  door — just  as  his  dog  does — and  to  refuse  to  eat  or  drink  till 
I died.” 

But,  dear  Violet,  you  are  not  alone  in  the  world.  You  have 
your  poor  mamma  to  think  of.” 

“ Mamma — yes.  I am  sorry  for  her,  of  course.  But  she  is 
only  like  a lay  figure  in  my  life.  Papa  was  everything.” 

“ Do  you  know  where  your  mamma  is  going  to  take  you?” 

“ No,  I neither  know  nor  care.  It  will  be  to  a house  with 
four  walls  and  a roof,  I suppose,  It  will  be  all  the  same  to  me 
wherever  it  is.” 

What  could  Roderick  say  ? It  was  too  soon  to  talk  about  hope 
or  comfort.  His  heart  was  rent  by  this  dull,  silent  grief;  but  he 
could  do  nothing  except  sit  there  silently  by  Vixen’s  side  with 
her  cold,  unresponsive  hands  held  in  his. 

Miss  M’Croke  came  back  presently,  followed  by  a maid  carry- 
ing a pretty  little  Japan'^se  tea-tray. 

‘‘I  have  just  been  giving  your  poor  mamma  a cup  of  tea, 
Violet,”  said  the  governess.  “Mr.  Clements  has  been  telling 
her  about  the  will,  and  it  has  been  quite  too  much  for  her.  She 
was  almost  hysterical.  But  she’s  better  now,  poor  dear.  And 
now  we’ll  all  have  some  tea.  Bring  the  table  to  the  fire,  Mr. 
V'awdrey,  please,  and  let  us  make  ourselves  comfortable,’'  con- 
cluded Miss  M’Croke,  with  an  assumption  of  mild  cheerfulness. 

Perhaps  there  is  not  in  all  nature  so  cheerful  a thing  as  a gooci 
sea-coal  fire.  It  will  be  cheerful  in  the  face  of  affliction.  It 
sends  out  its  gushes  of  warmth  and  brightness,  its  gay  little 
arrowy  flames  that  appear  and  disappear  like  elves  dancing  their 
midnight  waltzes  on  a barren  moor.  It  seems  to  say,  “ Look  at 
me  and  be  comforted;  look  at  me  and  hope.  So  from  the  dull 
blackness  of  sorrow  rise  the  many  colored  lights  of  new-born 
joy.” 

Vixen  suffered  her  chair  to  be  brought  near  that  cheery  fire, 
and  just  then  Argus  crept  into  the  room  and  nestled  at  her  side. 
Roderick  seated  himself  at  the  other  end  of  the  hearth — a bright 
little  hearth  with  its  border  of  high-art  tiles,  illuminated  with 
the  story  of  “ Mary,  Mary,  quite  contrary,”  done  in  pre-Raphael- 
ite  style  by  a famous  painter.  Miss  M’Croke  poured  out  the 
tea  in  the  quaint  old  red  and  blue  Worcester  cups,  and  kept  up 
that  assumption  of  cheerfulness.  She  would  not  have  per- 
mitted herself  to  smile  yesterday;  but  now  the  funeral  was 


60  VIXEN. 

over,  the  blinds  were  drawn  np,  and  a mild  cheerfulness  was 
allowable.  , 

“If  you  would  condescend  to  tell  me  where  you  are  going, 
Vixen,  1 might  contrive  to  come  there  too  by  and  by.  We  could 
have  some  rides  together.  You’ll  take  Arion,  of  course 

“ I don’t  know  that  I shall  ever  ride  again,”  answered  Violet, 
with  a shudder. 

^ Could  she  ever  forget  that  awful  ride?  Eoderick  hated  him- 
self for  his  foolish  speech. 

“Violet  will  have  to  devote  herself  to  her  studies  very  assid- 
uously for  the  next  two  years,”  said  Miss  M’Croke.  “ She  is 
much  more  backward  than  I like  a pupil  of  mine  to  be  at  six- 
teen.” 

“ Yes,  I am  going  to  grind  at  three  or  four  foreign  grammars, 
and  to  give  my  mind  to  latitude  and  longitude,  and  fractions  and 
decimals,”  said  Vixen,  with  a bitter  laugh.  “Isn’t  that  cheer- 
ing ?” 

“Whatever  you  do.  Vixen,”  cried  Roderick,  earnestl}^”  don’t 
be  a paradigm.” 

“What’s  that?” 

“An  example,  a model,  a paragon,  ‘a  perfect  woman  nobly 
planned,’  etc.  Be  anything  but  that,  Vixen,  if  you  love  me.’ 

“I  don’t  think  there  is  much  fear  of  any  of  us  being  perfect,” 
said  Miss  M’Croke,  severely.  “ Imperfection  is  more  in  the  line 
of  humanity.” 

“Do  you  think  so?  I find  there  is  a great  deal  too  much  per- 
fection in  this  world,  too  many  faultless  people;  I hate  them.” 

“ Isn't  that  a confession  of  faultiness  on  your  sid^e?”  suggest- 
ed Miss  M’Croke. 

“ It  may  be.  But  it’s  the  truth.” 

Vixen  sat  with  dry  hollow  eyes  staring  at  the  fire.  She  had 
heard  their  talk  as  if  it  had  been  something  a long  way  off. 
Argus  nestled  closer  and  closer  at  her  knee,  and  she  patted  his 
big  blunt  head  absently,  with  a dim  sense  of  comfort  in  this 
brute  love,  which  she  had  not  derived  from  human  sympathy. 

Miss  M’Croke  went  on  talking  and  arguing  with  Rorie,  with 
a view  to  sustaining  that  fictitious  cheerfulness  which  might  be- 
guile Vixen  into  brief  oblivion  of  her  griefs.  But  Vixen  was  not 
so  to  be  beguiled.  She  was  with  them,  but  not  of  them.  Her 
haggard  eyes  stared  at  the  fire,  and  her  thoughts  "svere  with  the 
dear  dead  father,  over  whose  newly  filled  grave  the  evening 
shadows  were  closing. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

CAPTAIN  CAUmCHAEL. 

Two  years  later,  and  Vixen  was  sitting,  with  the  same  faithful 
Argus  nestling  beside  her,  by  the  fireside  of  a spacious  Brighton 
drawing-room — a large,  lofty,  commonplace  room,  with  tall  win- 
dows facing  seaward.  Miss  M’Croke  was  there  too,  standing  at 
one  of  the  windows  taking  up  a dropped  stitch  in  her  knit- 
ting, while  Mrs.  Tempest  w'alked  slowly  up  and  down  the  ex- 
panse of  Brussels  carpet,  stopping  now  and  then  at  a window  in 


VIXEN. 


61 


lock  idly  out  at  the  red  suusefc  beyond  the  low-lying  roofs  and 
spars  of  Shoreham.  Those  two  years  had  changed  Violet  Tem- 
pest from  a slender  girl  to  a nobly  formed  woman — a woman 
whom  a sculptor  would  have  worshiped  as  his  dream  of  per^ 
fection,  whom  a painter  would  have  reverenced  for  her  glow 
and  splender  of  coloring,  but  about  whose  beauty  the  common 
run  of  mankind,  and  more  especially  womankind,  had  n.ot  quite 
made  up  their  minds.  The  pretty  little  women  with  eighteen- 
inch  waists  opined  that  Miss  Tempest  was  too  hig. 

“ She’s  very  handsome,  you  know,  and  all  tliat,”  they  said, 
deprecatingly,  “and  her  figure  is  quite  splendid;  but  she’s  on 
such  a very  large  scale.  She  ought  to  be  painted  in  fresco,  you 
know,  on  a high  cornice.  As  Autumn,  or  Plenty,  or  Ceres,  or 
something  of  that  kind,  carrying  a cornucopia.  But  in  a draw- 
ing-room she  looks  so  very  massive.” 

The  amber-haired  women — palpably  indebted  to  auricomous 
fluids  for  the  color  of  their  tresses — objected  to  the  dark 
burnished  gold  of  Violet  Tempest's  hair.  There  was  too  much 
red  in  the  gold,  they  said,  and  a color  so  obviously  genuine  was 
very  unfashionable.  That  milk-white  skin  of  hers,  too,  found 
objectors,  on  the  score  of  a slight  powdering  of  freckles— spots 
which  the  kindly  sun  leaves  on  the  fruit  he  best  loves.  In  fact, 
there  were  many  reservations  made  by  Miss  Tempest’s  pretended 
admirers  when  they  summed  up  her  good  looks,  but  when  she 
rode  her  pretty  bay  horse  along  the  King’s  Poad,  strangers 
turned  to  look  at  her  admiringly;  when  she  entered  a crowded 
room,  she  threw  all  paler  beauties  in  the  shade.  The  cabbage- 
rose  is  a vulgar  flower,  perhaps,  but  she  is  queen  of  the  garden 
not  withstand  in  g. 

Lest  it  should  be  supposed  after  this  that  Vixen  was  a giantess, 
it  may  be  as  well  to  state  that  her  height  was  five  feet  six,  her 
waist  twenty-two  inches  at  most,  her  shoulders  broad  but  finelv 
sloping,  her  arms  full  and  somewhat  muscular,  her  hands  not 
small,  but  exquisitely  tapering,  her  foot  long  and  narrow,  her 
instep  arched  like  an  Arab’s,  and  all  her  movements  instinct 
with  an  untutored  grace  and  dignity.  She  held  her  head  higher 
than  is  common  to  women,  and  on  that  score  was  found  guilty 
of  pride. 

“ I think  we  ought  to  go  back  before . Christmas,  Violet,”  said 
Mrs.  Tempest,  continuing  a discussion  that  had  been  dragging 
itself  slowly  adong  for  the  last  half-hour. 

“I  am  ready,  mamma,”  answered  Vixen,  submissively.  “It 
will  break  our  hearts  afresh  whenever  we  go  home,  but  I sup- 
pose we  must  go  home  some  day.” 

“ But  you  would  like  to  see  the  dear  old  house  again,  surely, 
Violet?” 

“Like  to  see  the  frame  without  the  picture?  No,  no,  no, 
mamma.  The  frame  was  very  dear  while  the  picture  was  in  it; 
but — yes,”  cried  Vixen,  passionately,  “ I should  like  to  go  back. 
I should  like  to  see  papa’s  grave,  and  carry  fresh  flowers  there 
every  day.  It  has  been  too  much  neglected.” 

^ “ Neglected,  Violet!  How  can  pay  such  things, when  Manotti’s 

ill  for  the  monumeut  was  over  nine  hundred  pounds?’’ 


62 


VIXEK. 


' Oil,  mamma,  there  is  more  love  in  a bunch  of  primroses  that 
imy  own  ha/id  gathers  and  carries  to  the  grave,  than  in  all  the 
marble  or  granite  in  Westrhinster  Abbey.” 

“My  dear,  for  poor  people  wild  flowers  are  very  nice, 
and  show  good  feeling,  but  the  rich  must  have  monuments. 
There  could  be  nothing  too  splendid  for  your  dear  papa,”  added 
the  widow,  tearfully. 

She  was  always  tearful  when  she  spoke  of  her  dear  Edward, 
even  now,  though  she  was  beginning  to  find  that  life  had  some 
savor  without  him. 

“No,”  said  Vixen;  “but  I think  papa  will  like  the  flowers 
best.”  y 

“Then  I think,  Miss  M’Croke,”  pursued  Mrs.  Tempest,  “wo^ 
will  go  back  at  the  end  of  November.  It  would  be  a pity  to  lose 
the  season  here.” 

Vixen  yawned  despondently. 

“ What  do  we  care  about  the  season,  mamma?”  she  exclaimed.. 
“ Can  it  matt^  to  us  whether  there  are  two  or  three  thousand 
extra  people  in  the  place  ? It  only  makes  the  King’s  Eoad  a lit- 
tle more  uncomfortable.” 

“ My  dear  Violet,  at  your  age  gayety  is  good  for  you,”  said 
Mrs.  Tempest. 

“ Yes,  and  like  most  other  things  that  are  good,  it’s  very  dis- 
agreeable,” retorted  Vixen. 

“ And  now  about  this  ball,”  pursued  Mrs.  Tempest,  taking  up 
a dropped  stitch  in  the  previous  argument — “ I really  think  we 
ought  to  go,  if  it  were  only  on  Violet's  account.  Don’t  you, 
Maria  ?” 

Mrs.  Tf  mpest  always  called  her  governess  Maria  when  she  was 
anxious  (o  conciliate  her. 

“ Violet  is  old  enough  to  enter  society,  certainly,”  said  Miss 
M’Croke,  with  some  deliberation,  “but  whether  a public  ball ” 

“If  it's  on  my  account,  mamma,  pray  don’t  think  of  going,” 
protested  Vixen,  earnestly.  “I  hate  the  idea  of  a ball,  I 
hate — 

“Captain  Carmichael,”  announced  Forbes,  in  the  dusky  end 
of  the  drawing-room  by  the  door. 

“ Ho  has  saved  me  the  trouble  of  finishing  my  sentence,”  mut- 
tered Vixen. 

The  visitor  came  smiling  though  the  dusk  into  the  friendly 
glow  of  the  fire.  He  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Tempest  with  the 
air  of  an  old  friend,  went  over  to  the  window  to  shake  hands 
with  Miss  M’Croke,  and  then  came  back  to  Vixen,  who  gave 
him  a limp,  cold  hand  with  an  indifference  that  was  almost  in- 
solent, while  Argus  lefted  his  head  an  inch  or  so  from  the  carpet 
and  saluted  him  with  a suppressed  growl.  Whether  this  arose 
from  a wise  instinct  in  the  animal,  or  from  a knowledge  that 
hi^  mistress  disliked  the  gentleman,  would  be  too  nice  a point  to 
decide. 

“ I was  that  moment  thinking  of  you,  Captain  Carmichael,” 
s'  id  the  widow. 

“ An  honor  and  a happiness  for  me,”  murmured  the  captain. 

Mrs,  Tempest  seated  herself  m her  own  particular  chair,  be- 


VIXEN. 


lade  which  was  her  owu  particular  table,  with  one  of  those  pretty 
tea  services  which  were  her  chief  delight — a miniature  silver  tea- 
kettle with  a spirit-lamp,  a cozy  little  ball-shaped  tea-pot,  cups 
and  saucers  of  old  Battersea. 

“You’ll  take  a cup  of  tea?”  she  sa  d,  insinuatingly. 

“ I shall  be  delighted.  I feel  as  if  I ought  to  go  home  and 
write  verses  or  smart  paragraphs  lor  the  comic  papers  after 
drinking  your  tea,  it  is  so  inspiring.  Addison  ought  to  have 
drunk  just  such  tea  before  writing  one  of  his  Spectcdors,  but  un- 
fortunately his  Muse  required  old  port.’‘ 

“ If  the  Spectator  came  out  nowadays,  I’m  afraid  we  should 
think  it  stupid,”  suggested  Mrs.  Tempest. 

“Simply  because  the  slipshod  writers  of  the  present  day  have 
spoiled  our  taste  for  fine  English,”  interjected  Miss  M’Croke, 
severely. 

“Well,  I fear  we  should  find  Addison  a little  thin,”  said  Cap- 
tain Carmichael.  “ I can’t  imagine  London  society  existing  for 
a week  on  such  literary  pabulum  as  ‘ The  Vision  of  Mirza.’  We 
want  something  stronger  than  that:  a little  scandal  about  our 
neighbors,  a racy  article  on  field-sports,  some  sharpish  hits  at  the 
City,  and  one  of  Addison’s  papers  on  hoods  or  breast-knots, 
patches  or  powder,  thrown  in  by  the  way  of  padding.  Our  dear 
Joseph  is  too  purely  literary  for  the  present  age.” 

“ What  monsters  newspapers  have  grown!”  remarked  Mrs. 
Tempest.  “ It’s  almost  impossible  to  get  through  them.” 

“Not  if  you  read  anything  else,”  answered  the  captain. 
“ The  majority  do  not.” 

“We  were  talking  about  the  ball  just  as  you  came  in,”  said 
Mrs.  Tempest.  “ I really  think  Vixen  ought  to  go.” 

“ I am  sure  she  ought,”  said  the  captain. 

Vixen  sat  looking  at  the  fire  and  i^atting  Argus.  She  did 
not  favor  the  captain  with  so  much  as  a glance;  and  yet  he  was 
a man  upon  whom  the  eyes  of  women  were  apt  to  dwell  favor- 
ably. He  was  not  essentially  handsome.  The  most  attractive 
men  rarely  are.  He  was  tall  and  thin,  with  a waist  as  small  as  a 
woman’s,  small  hands,  small  feet — a general  delicacy  of  mold 
that  was  accounted  thorough-bred.  He  had  a long  nose,  a 
darkly  pale  complexion,  keen  gray  eyes  under  dark  brows,  dark 
hair  cropped  close  to  his  small  head,  thin  lips,  white  teeth,  a 
neat  black  mustache,  and  a strictly  military  appearance,  though 
he  had  sold  out  of  a crack  regiment  three  years  ago,  and  was  now 
a gentleman  at  large,  doing  nothing,  and  living  in  a gentleman- 
like manner  on  a very  small  income.  He  was  not  in  debt,  and 
was  altogether  respectable.  Nothing  could  be  said  against  him, 
unless  it  were  some  dark  hint  of  a gambling  transaction,  some 
vague  whisper  about  the  mysterious  appearance  of  a king  at 
ecarte — the  kind  of  a rumor  which  is  apt  to  pursue  a man  who, 
like  Bulwer’s  Dudley  Smooth,  does  not  cheat,  but  always  wins. 

Despite  these  vague  slanders,  which  are  generally  baseless— 
the  mere  expression  of  society’s  fioating  malice,  the  scum  of  ill- 
nature  on  the  world’s  waves — Captain  Carmichael  was  a universal 
favorite.  He  went  everywhere,  and  was  liked  wherever  he  went^ 


64 


VIXEN. 


He  was  very  clever,  gifted  with  that  adaptability  and  handiness 
which  is,  of  all  cleverness,  most  valuable  in  polite  society.  Of 
him,  as  of  Goldsmith,  it  might  be  said,  that  he  touched  nothing 
he  did  not  adorn.  True,  that  the  things  he  touched  were  for  the 
most  part  small  things,  but  they  were  things  that  kept  him  be- 
fore the  eye  of  society,  and  found  favor  in  that  e3^e. 

He  was  a good  horsemau,  a good  oarsman,  a good  sv/immer,  a 
good  cricketer.  He  played  and  sang;  he  was  a first-rate  amateur 
actor;  he  was  great  at  billiards  and  all  games  of  skill;  he  could 
talk  any  language  society  wanted  liim  to  talk — society  not  re- 
quiring a man  to  excel  in  Coptic  or  Chinese,  or  calling  iipon  him 
suddenly  for  Japanese  or  Persian;  he  dressed  with  perfect  taste, 
and  without  the  slightest  pretense  of  dandyism;  he  could  write 
a first-rate  letter,  and  caricature  his  dearest  friends  of  last  year 
in  pen  and  ink  for  the  entertainment  of  his  dearest  friends  of 
this  year;  he  was  known  to  have  contributed  occasionally  to 
fashionable  periodicals,  and  was  supposed  to  have  a reserve  of 
wit  and  satire  which  would  quite  have  annihilated  the  hack 
writers  of  the  day  had  he  cared  to  devote  himself  to  literature. 

Mrs.  Tempest  and  her  daughter  had  met  the  captain  early  in 
the  previous  spring  among  the  Swiss  mountains.  He  knew  some 
of  Mrs.  Tempest's  Hampshire  friends,  and  with  no  other  creden- 
tials had  contrived  to  win  her  friendship.  Vixen  took  it  into 
her  obstinate  young  head  to  detest  him.  But  then  Vixen  at 
seventeen  and  a half  was  full  of  ridiculous  dislikes  and  irrational 
caprices.  Mrs.  Tempest,  in  her  lonely  and  somewhat  depressed 
condition,  considered  the  captain  a particularly  useful  acquaint- 
ance. Miss  M’Croke  was  dubious,  but  finding  any  expression  of 
her  doubts  ungraciously  received,  took  the  safer  line  of  silence. 

The  ball  in  question  was  a charity  ball  at  the  Pavilion,  a per- 
fectly unobjectionable  ball.  The  list  of  patronesses  bristled  with 
noble  names.  There  was  nothing  to  be  said  against  Vixen’s  ap- 
pearance there,  except  Miss  M’Croke’s  objection  that  Squire 
Tempest’s  daughter  and  heiress  ought  not  to  make  her  debut  in 
society  at  any  public  ball  whatever.  But  Mrs.  Tempest  had  set 
her  heart  upon  Vixen’s  going  to  the  ball;  or,  in  other  words,  she 
had  set  her  heart  upon  going  herself.  On  her  way  through 
Paris  in  September  she  had  gone  to  Worth’s — out  of  curiosity, 
just  to  see  what  the  great  man’s  salons  were  like — and  there  she 
had  been  tempted  into  the  purchase  of  an  artistic  combination 
of  black  silk  and  jet,  velvet  and  passementerie.  She  did  not  re- 
quire the  costume,  but  the  thing  in  itself  was  so  beautiful  that 
she  could  not  help  buying  it.  And  having  spent  a hundred  guin- 
eas on  this  masterpiece,  there  arose  in  her  mind  a natural  crav- 
ing to  exliibit  it;  to  feel  that  she  was  being  pointed  out  as  one 
of  the  best-dressed  women  in  the  crowded  room;  to  know  that 
women  were  whispering  to  each  other,  significantly,  “Worth,’ 
as  the  velvet  and  silk  and  passementerie  combination  swept  by. 

There  was  a good  deal  more  discussion,  and  it  was  ultimately 
settled  that  Vixen  should  go  to  the  ball.  She  had  no  positive 
objection.  She  would  have  liked  the  idea  of  the  ball  well 
enough,  perhaps,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Captain  Carmichael.  It 
was  his  advocacy  that  made  the  sub.iect  odious. 


VIXEN. 


C5 


“ How  very  rudely  you  behaved  to  Captain  Carmichael,  Vio- 
let,” said  Mrs.  Tempest,  when  her  visitor  had  departed. 

“Did  I,  mamma?”  inquired  Vixen,  listlessly.  “ I thought  I 
was  extraordinarily  civil.  If  you  knew-  how  I should  have  liked 
to  behave  to  him,  you  would  think  so  too.” 

“I  can  not  imagine  why  you  are  so  prejudiced  against  him,” 
pursued  Mrs,  Tempest,  fretfully. 

“ It  is  not  prejudice,  mamma,  but  instinct,  like  Argus’s.  That 
man  is  destined  to  do  us  some  great  wrong,  if  we  do  not  <3scape 
out  of  his  clutches.” 

“ It  is  shameful  of  you  to  say  such  things,”  cried  the  widow, 
pale  with  anger.  “ What  have  you  to  say  against  him?  What 
fault  can  you  find  with  him  ? You  cannot  deny  that  he  is  most 
gentleman-like.  ” 

“No,  mamma;  he  is  a little  too  gentleman-like.  He  makes 
a trade  of  his  gentlemanliness.  He  is  too  highly  polished  for 
me.” 

“You  prefer  a rough  young  fellow,  like  Roderick  Vawdrey, 
who  talks  slang,  and  smells  of  ifie  stables.” 

“ I prefer  any  one  who  is  good  and  true,”  retorted  Vixen. 
“ Roderick  is  a inan,  and  not  to  be  named  in  the  same  breath 
with  your  fine  gentleman.” 

“ I admit  that  the  comparison  would  be  vastly  to  bis  disad- 
vantage,” said  the  widow.  “ But  it’s  time  to  dress  for  dinner.” 

“And  we  are  to  dine  with  the  Mortimers,”  yawned  Vixen. 
“What  a bore  I” 

This  young  lady  had  not  that  natural  bent  for  society  which 
is  symptomatic  of  her  age.  The  wound  that  pierced  her  young 
heart  two  years  ago  had  not  healed  so  completely  that  she  could 
find  pleasure  in  inane  conversation  and  the  factitious  liveliness 
of  a fashionable  dinner-table. 


CHAPTER  X. 

“ IT  SHALL  BE  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.” 

The  night  of  the  ball  came,  and,  in  spite  of  her  aversion  for 
Captain  Carmichael,  and  general  dislike  of  the  whole  thing, 
Violet  Tempest  began  the  evening  by  enjoying  herself.  She  was 
young  and  energetic,  and  had  an  immense  reserve  of  animal 
spirits  after  her  two  years  of  sadness  and  mourning.  She  danced 
with  the  partners  her  friends  brought  her — some  of  the  most 
eligible  men  in  the  rooln — and  was  full  of  life  and  gayety;  yet 
the  festival  seemed  to  her  in  some  wise  horrible  all  the  time. 

“ If  papa  could  know  that  we  are  dancing  and  smiling  at  each 
other,  as  if  all  life  was  made  up  of  gladness,  when  he  is  lying  in 
his  cold  grave!”  thought  Vixen,  after  joining  hands  with  her 
mother  in  the  ladies’  chain. 

The  widow  looked  as  if  she  had  never  known  a care.  She  was 
conscious  that  Worth’s  chef -d oeuvre  was  not  thrown  away.  She 
saw  herself  in  the  great  mirrors  which  once  refiected  George  and 
his  lovely  Fitzherbert  in  their  days  of  gladness — which  refiected 
the  same  George  later,  old  and  sick,  and  weary. 


66 


VIXEN. 


‘‘  That  French  grande  dame  was  right,”  thought  Mrs.  Tempest, 
“ who  said  le  noir  est  si  flattant  pour  les  blondes.” 

Black  was  flattering  for  Vixen’s  ruddy  hair  also.  Though  her 
indifferent  eye  rarely  glanced  at  the  mirrored  walls,  she  had 
never  looked  lovelier.  A tall,  graceful  figure,  in  billowy  black 
tulle,  wreathed  with  white  chrysanthemums;  a queen-like  head, 
with  a red-gold  coronal;  a throat  like  an  ivory  pillar,  spanned 
with  a broad  black  ribbon  fastened  with  a diamond  clasp;  dia- 
mond stars  in  her  ears,  and  a narrow  belt  of  diamonds  round 
each  white  arm, 

“How  many  waltzes  have  you  kept  for  me?”  Captain  Car- 
michael asked,  presently,  coming  up  to  Vixen. 

“ I have  not  kept  waltzes  for  any  one,”  she  answered,  indiffer- 
ently. 

• ‘ But  surely  you  were  under  a promise  to  keep  some  for  me  ? 
I asked  you  a week  ago.” 

‘ ‘ Did  you  ? I am  sure  I never  promised  anything  of  the  kind.” 

“ Here  is  only  one  little  shabby  waltz  left,”  said  the  captain, 
looking  at  her  programme.  “May  I put  my  name  down  for 
that?” 

“ If  you  like,”  answered  Vixen,  indifferently;  and  then,  with 
the  faintest  suspicion  of  malice,  added,  “as  mamma  does  not 
dance  round  dances.” 

She  was  standing  up  for  the  Lancers  presently,  and  her  partner 
had  just  led  her  to  her  place,  when  she  saw  that  she  had  her 
mother  and  Captain  Carmichael  again  for  her  vis-a-vis.  She 
grew  suddenly  pale  and  turned  away. 

“ Will  you  let  me  sit  this  out  ?”  she  said.  “ I feel  awfully  iU.” 

Her  partner  was  full  of  concern,  and  carried  her  off  at  once 
to  a cooler  room. 

“ It  is  too  bad  I”  she  mutterred  to  herself.  “ The  Lancers!  To 
go  romping  round  with  a lot  of  wild  young  men  and  women! 
It  is  as  bad  as  the  queen  in  Hamlet!” 

This  was  the  last  dance  before  supper.  She  w^ent  in  presently 
with  her  attentive  partner,  w’ho  had  kept  by  her  side  devotedly 
while  the  lively  scramble  to  good  old  English  tunes  was  going 
on  in  the  dancing-room. 

“Are  you  better?”  he  asked,  tenderly,  fanning  her  with  her 
big  black  fan,  painted  with  pale  gray  cupids  and  white  chrysan- 
themums. “The  room  is  abominably  hot.” 

“Thanks.  I’m  quite  well  now.  It  was  only  a momentary 
faintness.  But  I rather  hate  the  Lancers,  don’t  you  ?’ 

“ Well,  I don’t  know.  I think,  sometimes,  you  know,  with  a 
nice  partner,  they’re  good  fun.  Only  one  can’t  help  treading  on 
the  ladies’  trains,  and  they  wind  themselves  round  one’s  legs 
like  snakes.  I’ve  seen  fellows  come  awful  croppers,  and  the 
lady  who  has  done  it  looks  so  sweetly  unconcerned.  But  if  one 
tears  a lace  flounce,  you  know,  they  look  daggers.  It’s  some- 
thing too  dreadful  to  feel  one’s  self  walking  into  Boniton  at  ten 
guineas  a yard,  and  the  more  one  tries  to  extricate  one’s  self,  the 
more  harm  one  does.” 

Vixen’s  supper  was  the  merest  pretense.  Her  mot^r  sat  op- 
posite her,  with  Captain  Carmichael  stiU  in  attendance.  Vixen 


VIXEN. 


67 


gave  them  one  look,  and  then  sat  like  an  image  of  scorn.  Her 
partner  could  not  get  a word  from  her,  and  when  he  offered  her 
tlie  fringed  end  of  a cracker  bonbon,  she  positively  refused  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  it. 

“ Please  donT.”  she  said.  “ It’s  too  inane.  I couldn’t  possibly 
pretend  to  be  interested  ia  the  motto.” 

When  she  went  back  to  the  ball-room  Captain  Carmichael  fol- 
lowed her  and  claimed  his  waltz.  The  band  was  just  striking 
up  the  latest  love-sick  German  melody,  “Weit  von  dir!” — a 
strain  of  drawling  tenderness.  ' 

“ You  had  better  go  and  secure  your  supper,”  said  Vixen, 
coldly. 

I despise  all  ball  suppers.  This  one  most  particularly,  if  it 
were  to  deprive  me  of  my  waltz.” 

Vixen  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  submitted  to  take  those 
few  preliminary  steps  which  are  like  the  strong  swimmer’s  shiv- 
erings  on  the  bank  ere  he  plunges  in  the  stream.  And  then  she 
was  whirling  round  to  the  legato  strains,  “ Weit  von  dir!  Weit 
von  dir!  Wo  ist  mein  Leben's  Lust?  Weit  von  dir!  Weit  von 
dir!” 

Captain  Carmichael’s  waltzing  was  simple  perfection.  It  was 
not  the  Liverpool  Lurch  or  the  Scarborough  Scramble,  the 
Bermondsey  Bounce  or  the  Whitechai>el  V^oggle;  it  was  waltz- 
ing pure  and  simple,  unaffected,  graceful;  the  waltzing  of  a man 
with  a musical  ear,  and  an  athlete’s  mastery  of  the  art  of  mo- 
tion. Vixen  hated  the  captain,  but  she  enjoyed  the  waltz. 
They  danced  till  the  last  bar  died  away  in  a tender  diminuendo. 

“ You  look  pale,”  said  the  captain;  “ let  us  go  into  the  garden.” 
He  brought  her  cloak  and  wrapped  it  round  her,  and  slie  took 
his  offered  arm  without  a word.  It  was  one  of  those  rare  nights 
in  late  October  when  the  wind  is  not  cold.  There  was  hardly  the 
flutter  of  a leaf  in  the  Pavilion  garden.  The  neighboring  sea 
made  the  gentlest  music — a melancholy  ebb  and  flow  of  sound, 
like  the  murmuring  of  some  great  imprisoned  spirit. 

In  the  searching  light  of  day,  when  its  adjacent  cab  stands 
and  commonesses  are  visible,  and  its  graveled  walks  are  peopled 
with  nurse-maids  and  small  children,  the  Pavilion  garden  can 
hardly  be  called  romantic.  But  by  this  tender  moonlight,  in 
this  cool  stillness  of  a placid  autumn  midnight,  even  the  Pavilion 
garden  had  its  air  of  romance  and  mystery.  The  various  roofs 
and  chimneys  stood  up  against  the  sky,  picturesque  as  a city  of 
old  time.  And,  after  all,  this  part  of  Brighton  has  a peculiar 
charm  which  all  the  rest  of  Brighton  lacks.  It  speaks  of  the 
past,  it  tells  its  story  of  the  dead.  They  were  not  great  or  heroic, 
perhaps,  those  departed  figures,  whose  ghosts  haunt  us  in  the 
red  and  yellow  rooms,  and  in  the  stiff  town  garden ; but  they 
had  their  histories.  They  lived,  and  loved,  and  suffered;  and, 
being  dead  so  long,  come  back  to  us  in  the  softened  light  of  van- 
ished days,  and  take  hold  of  our  fancy  with  their  quaint  gar- 
ments and  antique  head-gear,  their  powder,  and  court  swords, 
and  diamond  shoe-buckles,  and  little  loves  and  little  sorrow^s. 

Vixen  walked  slowly  along  the  shining  gravel  path  with  her 
black  ana  gold  mantle  folded  round  her,  looking  altogether 


68 


VIXEN. 


statuesque  and  unapproachable.  They  took  one  turn  in  abso- 
lute silence,  and  then  Captain  Carmichael,  who  was  not  inclined  to 
beat  about  the  bush  when  he  had  something  particular  to  say 
and  a good  opportunity  for  saying  it,  broke  the  spell. 

This  was  perhaps  the  first  time,  in  an  acquaintance  of  more 
than  six  months,  that  he  had  ever  found  himself  alone  with 
Violet  Tempest  without  hazard  of  immediate  interruption. 

“ Miss  Tempest,”  he  began,  with  a firmness  of  tone  that 
startled  her,  I want  to  know  why  you  are  so  unkind  to  me.” 

‘‘1  hardly  know  what  you  mean  by  unkindness.  I hope  I 
have  never  said  anything  uncivil?” 

“No;  but  you  have  let  me  see  very  plainly  that  you  dislike 
me.” 

“ I am  sorry  nature  has  given  me  an  upleasantly  candid  dis- 
position.” 

Those  keen  gray  eyes  of  the  captain’s  were  watching  her  in- 
tently. An  angry  look  shot  at  her  from  under  the  straight  dark 
brows — swift  as  an  arrow. 

“ You  admit,  then,  that  you  do  not  like  me  ?”  he  said. 

Vixen  paused  before  replying.  Tlie  position  was  embarrass- 
ing. 

“ I suppose  if  I w’ere  lady-like  and  proper  I should  protest  that 
I like  you  immensely;  that  there  is  no  one  in  the  world,  my 
mother  excepted,  whom  T like  better.  But  I never  was  jjarticu- 
larly  proper  or  polite.  Captain  Carmichael,  and  I must  confess 
there  are  very  few  people  I do  like,  and ” 

“ And  I am  not  one  of  them,”  said  the  captain. 

“You  have  finished  the  sentence  for  me.” 

“ That  is  hard  upon  me — no,  Violet,  you  can  never  know  how 
hard.  Why  should  vou  dislike  me?  You  are  the  first  woman 
who  ever  told  me  so  ” (flushing  with  an  indignant  recollection 
of  all  his  victories).  “ I have  done  nothing  to  offend  you.  I have 
not  been  obtrusive.  I have  worshiped  at  a distance — but  the 
Persian’s  homage  of  the  sun  is  not  more  reverent ” 

“Oh,  pray  don’t  talk  about  the  Persians  and  the  sunl”  cried 
Violet.  “I  am  not  worthy  that  you  should  be  so  concerned 
about  my  likes  and  dislikes.  Please  think  of  me  as  an  un- 
taught, inexperienced  girl.  Two  years  ago  I was  a spoiled  child. 
Y^ou  don’t  know  how  my  dearest  father  spoiled  me.  It  is  no 
wonder  I am  rude.  Remember  this,  and  forgive  me  if  I am  too 
truthful.” 

“ You  are  all  that  is  lovely,”  he  exclaimed  passionately,  stung 
by  her  scorn  and  fired  by  her  beauty,  almost  beside  himself  as 
they  stood  there  in  the  magical  moonlight,  for  once  in  his  life 
forgetting  to  calculate  every  move  on  life's  chess-board  before- 
hand. “You  are  too  lovely  for  me.  From  the  very  first,  in 
Switzerland,  when  I was  so  happy — No,  I will  not  tell  you. 
^ will  not  lay  down  my  heart  to  be  trampled  under  your  feet.” 

“Don’t,”  cried  Violet,  transfixing  him  with  the  angry  fire  of 
her  eyes,  “ for  I'm  afraid  I should  trample  on  it.  I am  not  one 
\)f  those  gentle  creatures  who  go  out  of  their  way  to  avoid  tread- 
ing on  worms — or  other  reptiles.” 

“ You  are  as  cruel  as  you  are  lovely,”  he  said;  “ and  your  cru- 


YIXEK 


69 


elty  is  sweel  cr  than  another  woman’s  kindness.  Violet,  I laugh 
at  your  dislike.  Yes,  such  aversion  as  that  is  often  the  beginning 
of  closest  liking.  I will  not  be  disheartened.  I will  not  be  put 
oil  by  your  scornful  candor.  What  if  I were  to  tell  you  that 
you  are  the  only  woman  I ever  loved?” 

‘‘  Pray  do  not.  It  would  transform  passive  dislike  into  active 
hatred."  I should  be  sorry  for  that,  because” — looking  at  him 
deliberately  with  a slow  scorn — “I  think  mamma  likes  you.” 

‘‘  She  has  honored  me  with  her  confidence,  and  I hope  I shall 
not  prove  unworthy  of  the  trust.  I rarely  fail  to  repay  any 
benefit  that  is  bestowed  upon  me.” 

“October  nights  are  treacherous,”  said  Vixen,  drawing  her 
cloak  closer  around  her.  “I  think  we  had  better  go  back  to  the 
ball-room.” 

She  was  shivering  a little  with  agitated  feeling,  in  spite  of  that 
mantle  of  scorn  in  which  she  had  wrapped  herself.  This  was 
the  first  man  who  had  ever  called  her  lovely,  who  had  ever 
talked  to  her  of  love  with  manhood’s  strong  passion. 

The  captain  gave  her  his  arm,  and  they  went  back  to  the  light 
and  heat  of  the  yellow  dragons  and  scarlet  griffins.  Anotlier 
Lancer  scramble  was  in  full  progress,  to  the : Id-fashioned  jigging 
tunes,  but  Mrs.  Tempest  was  sitting  among  the  matrons  in  a cor- 
ner by  an  open  window. 

“Are  we  ever  going  home  any  more,  mamma?”  inquired 
Vixen. 

“ My  dear  Violet,  I have  been  waiting  for  you  ever  so  long.” 

“Why  should  you  leave  so  early?”  exclaimed  Captain  Car- 
michael. “ There  are  half  a dozen  more  dances,  and  you  are 
engaged  for  them  all,  I believe,  Miss  Tempest.” 

“Then  I will  show  mercy  to  my  partners  by  going  away,” 
said  Violet.  “ Are  all  balls  as  long  as  this?  We  seem  to  have 
been  here  ages;  I expect  to  find  my  hair  gray  to-morrow 
morning.” 

“ I reaUy  think  we  had  better  go,”  said  Mrs.  Tempest,  in  her 
undecided  way. 

She  was  a person  who  never  quite  made  up  her  mind  about 
anything,  but  balanced  every  question  gently,  letting  somebody 
else  turn  the  scale  for  her— her  maid,  her  governess,  her  daugh- 
ter; she  was  always  trying  to  have  her  own  way,  but  never 
quite  knew  what  her  own  way  w'as,  and  just  managed  things 
skillfully  enough  to  prevent  other  people  having  theirs. 

“If  you  are  determined,  I will  see  you  to  your  carriage,  and 
then  the  ball  is  over  for  me,”  said  the  captain,  gallantly. 

He  offered  Mrs.  Tempest  his  arm,  and  they  went  out  into  the 
vestibule,  v^here  the  captain  left  them  for  a few  minutes  while 
he  went  into  the  porch  to  hasten  the  arrival  of  the  carriage. 

“Where  were  you  and  Captain  Carmichael  all  that  time, 
Violet  ?”  asked  Mrs.  Tempest. 

“In  the  garden.” 

“How  imprudeatl” 

“ Indeed,  dear  mamma,  it  wasn’t  cold.” 

“ But  you  were  out  there  so  long!  What  could  you  find  to 
about  all  that  time 


70  VIXEN. 

**  We  were  not  talking  all  the  time,  only  enjoying  the  cool  air 
and  the  moonlight.” 

“Mrs.  Tempest’s  carriagel”  roared  one  of  the  doorkeepers, 
as  if  it  had  been  his  doing  that  the  carriage  had  appeared  so 
quickly. 

Captain  Carmichael  was  ready  to  hand  them  to  their  brough- 
am. 

“ Come  and  take  a cup  of  tea  to-morrow  afternoon,  and  let  us 
talk  over  the  ball,”  said  the  widow, 

“With  infinite  pleasure.” 

“ Shall  we  drop  you  at  your  house?” 

“A  thousand  thanks;  no — my  lodgings  are  so  close.  I'll  walk 
home.” 

He  went  back  for  his  overcoat,  and  then  walked  slowly  away, 
without  another  glance  at  the  crowded  ball-room,  or  the  corri- 
dors where  ladies  who  were  waiting  for  their  carriages,  were 
contriving  to  improve  the  time  by  a good  deal  of  quiet  or  noisy 
flirtation.  His  lodgings  were  on  the  Old  Steine,  close  by.  But 
he  did  not  go  home  immediately.  There  are  times  in  a man’s 
life  when  four  walls  are  to  small  too  hold  the  bigness  of  his 
thoughts.  Captain  Carmichael  paced  the  Marine  Parade  for 
half  an  hour  or  so  before  he  went  home. 

“Vapour  la  mere,”  he  said  to  himself,  at  the  close  of  that 
half  hour’s  meditations;  “ she  is  really  very  nice,  and  the  posi- 
tion altogether  advantageous — perhaps  as  much  as  one  has  the 
right  to  expect  in  the  general  decadence  of  things.  But,  good 
heavensi  how  lovely  that  girl  is!  She  is  the  first  woman  who 
ever  looked  me  in  the  face  and  told  me  she  disliked  me;  the  first 
woman  who  ever  gave  me  contemptuous  looks  and  scornful 
words.  And  yet,  for  that  very  reason,  perhaps,  I — ” 

The  dark  brows  contracted  over  the  keen  eyes,  which  seemed 
closer  than  usual  to  the  hawk  nose. 

“Look  to  yourself,  my  queen,  in  the  time  to  come,” he  said, 
as  he  turned  his  back  on  the  silvery  sea  and  moonliglit  sky. 
“ You  have  been  hard  to  me,  and  I will  be  hard  to  you.  It  shall 
be  measure  for  measure.” 


CHAPTER  XI. 

“ I HAVE  NO  WRONG,  WHERE  I CAN  CLAIM  NO  RIGHT.  ’ 
Going  home  again.  That  was  hard  to  bear.  It  re-opened  all 
the  old  wounds.  Violet  Tempest  felt  as  if  her  heart  must  really 
break,  as  if  this  new  grief  were  sharper  than  the  old  one.  when 
the  carriage  drove  in  through  the  familiar  gates,  in  the  Decem- 
ber dusk,  and  along  the  winding  shrubberied  road,  and  up  to  the 
Tudor  porch,  where  the  lion  of  the  Tempests  stood,  rc- 

gardant,  with  lifted  paw  and  backward  gaze,  above  the  stone 
fehield.  The  ruddy  fire- light  was  shining  across  the  wide  door- 
wg-y.  The  old  hearth  looked  as  cheerful  as  of  old.  And  there 
stood  tlie  empty  chair  beside  it.  That  bad  been  Vixen’s  particu- 
lar wish. 

“ Let  rqthing  be  disturbed,  dear  mamma,”  she  had  said  ever 
so  many  tlm^,  ^hei^  her  mpther  was  writing  her  orders  to  the 


VIXEN. 


71 


housekeeper.  “Beg  them  to  keep  everything  just  as  it  was  in 
papa’s  time.” 

“ My  dear,  it  will  only  make  you  grieve  more.” 

“Yes;  but  I had  rather  grieve  for  him  than  forget  him.  I am 
more  afraid  of  forgetting  him  than  of  grieving  too  much  for 
him,”  said  Yixen. 

And  now,  as  she  stood  on  the  hearth  after  her  journey,  'wrap- 
ped in  black  furs,  a little  black  fur  toque  crowning  her  ruddy 
gold  hair,  fancy  filled  the  empty  chair  as  she  gazed  at  it.  Yes, 
she  could  see  her  father  sitting  there  in  his  hunting  clothes,  his 
whip  across  his  knee. 

The  old  pointer,  the  squire’s  favorite,  came  whining  to  her 
feet,  now  old  he  lookedi  Old  and  broken  and  infirm,  as  if 
from  in  . ch  sorrow. 

“Poor ’.Nipl  poor  Nipl”  she  said,  patting  him.  “The  joy  of 
your  life  went  with  papa,  didn’t  it?” 

“It’s  all  very  sad,”  murmured  Mrs.  Tempest,  loosening  her 
wraps.  “A  sad,  sad  home-coming.  And  it  seems  only  yester- 
day that  I came  here  as  u bride.  Did  I ever  tell  you  about  my 
traveling  dress,  Violet  ? It  was  a shot  silk — they  were  fashion- 
able then,  you  know — bronze  and  blue — the  loveliest  colors!*’ 

“ I can  t imagine  a shot  silk  being  anything  but  detestable,” 
said  Vixen,  curtly.  “PoorNipI  How  faithful  dogs  are!  The 
dear  thing  is  actually  crying!” 

Tears  were  indeed  running  from  the  poor  old  eyes,  as  the 
pointer’s  head  lay  in  Vixen’s  lap,  as  if  memory,  kindled  by  her 
image,  brought  back  the  past  too  keenly  for  that  honest  canine 
heart. 

“ It  is  very  mournful,”  said  Mrs.  Tempest.  “Pauline,  let  us 
have  a cup  of  tea.” 

She  sank  into  an  arm-chair  opposite  the  fire.  Not  the  squire’s 
old  carved  oak  chair,  with  its  tawny  leather  cushions;  that 
must  needs  be  sacred  evermore — a memento  of  the  dead,  stand- 
ing beside  the  hearth. 

“ I wonder  if  any  one  is  alive  that  we  knew  here?”  said  Vixen, 
lying  back  in  her  low  chair  and  idly  caressing  the  dogs. 

“ My  dear  Violet,  why  should  people  be  dead  ? We  have  only 
been  away  two  years.” 

“No;  but  it  seems  so  long.  I hardly  expect  to  see  any  of  the 
old  faces.  He  is  not  here  ” — with  a sudden  choking  sob.  “Why 
should  all  be  left — except  him  ?” 

“The  workings  of  Providence  are  full  of  mystery,”  sighed  the 
widow.  “ Dear  Edward!  How  handsome  he  looked  that  day 
he  brought  me  home!  And  he  was  a noble-looking  man  to  the 
last.  Not  more  than  two  spoonfuls  of  pekoe,  Pauline.  You 
ought  to  know  how  I like  it  by  this  time.” 

This  to  the  handmaiden,  who  was  making  tea  at  th(j  gypsy 
table  in  front  of  the  fire,  the  table  at  which  Vixen  and  Eoriehad 
drunk  tea  so  merrily  on  that  young  man’s  birthday. 

After  tea  they  went  the  round  of  the  house.  How  familiar, 
how  dear,  how  strange,  how  sad,  all  things  lookedi  The  faith- 
ful servants  had  done  their  duty.  Everyttiing  was  in  its  place. 
The  last  room  they  entered  was  the  squire’s  study.  Here  were 


VIXEN. 


all  his  favorite  books.  The  Sporting  Magazine,  from  its  com- 
mencement, in  crimson  morocco;  JNimrod  and  The  Druid;  As- 
sheton  Smith’s  Memoirs;  and  many  others  of  the  same  class; 
books  on  farming  and  farriery,  on  dogs  and  guns.  Here  were 
the  squire’s  guns  and  whips — a motley  collection,  all  neatly  ar- 
ranged by  his  own  hands.  The  servants  had  done  notliing  but 
keep  them  free  from  dust.  There,  by  the  low  and  cozy  fire- 
place, with  its  tiled  hearth,  stood  the  capacious  crimson  morocco 
chair  in  which  the  master  of  the  Abbey  House  had  been  w^ont  to 
sit  when  he  held  audiences  wdth  his  kennel  huntsman  or  game- 
keeper,  his  farm  bailifif  or  stud  groom. 

“ Mamma,  I should  like  you  to  lock  the  door  of  this  room  and 
keep  the  key,  so  that  no  one  may  ever  come  here,”  said  Vixen. 

•‘My  dear,  that  is  just  the  w-ay  to  prolong  your  grief;  but  I 
will  do  it  if  you  like.” 

“Do,  dear  mamma.  Or,  if  you  will  let  me  keep  the  key,  1 
will  come  in  and  dust  the  room  every  day.  It  would  be  a pleas- 
ure for  me,  a mournful  one,  perhaps',  but  still  a pleasure.” 

Mrs.  Tempest  made  no  objection,  and  when  they  left  the 
room  Vixen  locked  the  door  and  put  the  key  in  her  pocket. 

It  w^as  close  to  Christmas,  the  saddest  time  for  such  a home- 
coming, Vixen  thought.  The  gardeners  brought  in  their  bar- 
rows  of  holly  and  fir  and  laurel;  but  Vixen  would  take  no  part 
in  the  decoration  of  hall  and  corridors,  staircase  and  gallery — 
she  who  in  former  years  had  been  so  active  in  the  labor.  The 
humble  inhabitants  of  the  village  rejoiced  in  the  return  of  the 
family  at  the  great  house,  and  Vixen  w^as  pleased  to  see  the  kind 
faces  aga’n,  the  old  men  and  women,  the  rosy-cheeked  children 
and  care-worn  mothers.  She  had  a friendly  w^ord  for  every  one 
and  gifts  for  all.  Home  was  sweet  to  her  after  her  tvro  years^ 
absence,  despite  the  cloud  of  sadness  that  overhung  all  things. 
She  w'ent  out  to  the  stables  and  made  friends  v/ith  the  old 
liorses,  most  of  which  had  been  out  at  grass,  and  had  enjoyed  a 
paradise  of  rest  for  the  last  two  years.  Slug  and  Brawler,  Mrs. 
Tempest’s  candage-horses,  sleek,  even-minded  bays,  had  been  at 
Brigldon,  and  so  had  Vixen’s  beautiful  tliorough-bred,  Arion, 
andtia  handsome  brown  for  the  groom:  but  all  the  rest  had  stayed 
in  Hampshire.  Not  one  had  been  sold,  though  the  stud  was  a 
wasteful  and  useless  one  for  a widow  and  her  daughter.  There 
was  Bullfinch,  the  hunter  Squire  Tempest  had  ridden  in  his  last 
hour  of  life.  Violet  went  into  his  box  and  caressed  him, 
and  fed  him,  and  cried  over  him  with  bitterest  tears.  This 
home-coming  brought  back  the  old  sorrow  with  over  whelming 
force.  She  ran  out  of  the  stables  to  hide  lier  tears,  and  ran  up 
to  her  own  room,  and  abandoned  herself  to  her  grief,  almost  as 
utterly  as  she  had  done  on  those  dark  days  when  her  father’s 
corpse  was  lying  in  the  house.  ^ 

There  w^as  no  friendly  Miss  M'Croke  now  to  be  fussy  and 
anxious,  and  to  interpose  herself  between  Violet  Tempest  and 
her  grief.  Violet  was  supposed  to  be  “ finished,”  or,  in  other 
words,  to  know  everything  under  the  sun  which  a young  lady  of 
good  birth  and  ample  fortune  can  be  required  to  knovw  Every- 
thing, in  this  case,  consisted  of  a smattering  of  French,  Italian. 


VIXEN. 


73 


and  German,  a dubious  recollection  of  the  main  facts  in  modern 
history,  a few  vague  notions  about  astronomy,  some  foggy  ideas 
upon  the  constitution  of  plants  and  flowers,  sea-weeds  and  shells, 
rocks  and  hills,  and  a general  indifference  for  all  literature  ex- 
cept poetry  and  novels. 

Miss  M’Croke,  having  done  her  duty  conscientiously  after  her 
lights,  had  now  gone  to  finish  three  other  young  ladies,  the 
motherless  daughters  of  an  Anglo-Indian  colonel,  over  whom 
she  was  to  exercise  maternal  authority  and  guidance,  in  a tall, 
narrow  house  in  Maida  Vale.  She  had  left  Mrs.  Tempest  with 
all  honors,  and  Violet  had  lavished  gifts  upon  her  at  parting, 
feeling  fonder  of  her  governess  in  the  last  week  of  their  associa- 
tion than  at  any  other  period  of  her  tutelage.  To-day  in  her 
sorrow  it  was  a relief  to  Violet  to  find  herself  free  from  the  futile 
consolations  of  friendship.  She  flung  herself  into  the  arm-chair 
by  the  fire  and  sobbed  out  her  grief. 

‘‘Oh,  kindest,  dearest,  best  of  fathers,”  she  cried,  “what  is 
home  without  you!” 

And  then  she  remembered  that  awful  day  of  the  funeral  when 
Roderick  Vawdrey  had  sat  with  her  beside  this  hearth,  and  had 
tried  to  comfort  her,  and  she  had  heard  his  voice  as  a sound  far 
away,  a sound  that  had  no  meaning,  and  produced  only  a dull, 
stupefying  effect  upon  her  mind.  That  was  the  last  time  she 
had  seen  him. 

“ I don’t  suppose  I thanked  him  for  his  pity  or  his  kindness,” 
she  thought.  “ He  must  have  gone  away  thinking  me  cold  and 
ungrateful;  but  I was  like  a creature  at  the  bottom  of  some  dark, 
dismal  pit.  How  could  I feel  thankful  to  some  one  looking 
down  at  me  and  talking  to  me  from  the  free,  happy  world  at  the 
top  ?” 

Her  sobs  ceased  gradually,  she  dried  her  tears,  and  that  uncon- 
scious pleasure  in  life  which  is  a part  of  innocent  youth  came 
slowly  back.  She  looked  round  the  room  in  which  so  much  of 
her  childhood  had  been  spent,  a room  full  of  her  own  fancies 
and  caprices,  a room  whose  prettiness  had  been  bought  with  her 
own  money,  and  was  the  work  of  her  own  hands. 

In  spite  of  home’s  sorrowful  association  she  was  glad  to  find 
herself  at  home.  Mountains,  and  lakes,  and  sunny  bays,  and 
dark,  pathless  forests  may  be  ever  so  good  to  see,  but  there  is 
something  sweet  in  our  return  to  the  familiar  rooms  of  home; 
some  pleasure  in  being  shut  snugly  within  four  walls  surrounded 
by  one’s  own  belongings. 

The  wood  fire  burned  merrily,  and  sparkled  on  the  many-col- 
ored pots  and  pans  upon  the  paneled  wall.  Outside  the  deep- 
naulhoned  windows  the  winter  blast  was  blowing,  with  occa- 
sional spurts  of  flying  snow.  Argus  crept  in  presently  and 
stretched  himself  at  full  length  upon  the  fleecy  white  rug. 
Vixen  lay  back  in  her  low  chair,  musing  idly  in  the  glow  of  the 
fire,  and  ;by  and  by  the  lips  which  had  been  convulsecl  with  grief 
parted  in  a smile,  lovely  brown  eyes  shone  with  happy  mem- 
ories. 

She  was  thinking  of  her  old  playfellow  and  friend,  Rorie. 

“ I wonder  if  he  will  come  to-day  ?”  she  mused.  “ I think  he 


74 


VIXEN. 


will.  He  is  sure  to  be  at  home  for  the  hunting.  Yes,  he  will 
come  to-day?”  What  will  he  be  like,  I wonder?  Handsomer 
than  he  was  two  years  ago  ? No,  that  could  hardly  be.  He  is 
quite  a man  now.  Three- and-twenty;  Imusc  not  laugh  at  him 
anymore.” 

The  thought  of  his  coming  thrilled  her  with  a new  joy.  She 
seemed  to  have  been  living  an  artificial  life  in  the  two  years  of 
her  absence,  to  have  been  changed  in  her  very  self  by  change  of 
surroundings.  It  was  almost  as  if  the  old  Vixen  had  been  sent 
into  an  enchanted  sleep,  while  some  other  young  lady,  a model 
of  propriety  and  good  manners,  went  about  the  world  in  Vixen’s 
shape.  Her  life  had  been  made  up,  more  or  less,  of  trifles  and 
foolishness,  with  a background  of  grand  scenery.  Tepid  little 
friendships  with  agreeable  fellow-travelers  at  Nice;  tepid  little 
friendships  of  the  same  order  in  Switzerland;  well-dressed  young 
people  smiling  at  each  other,  and  delighting  in  each  other’s 
company,  and  parting,  probably  forever,  without  a pang. 

But  now  she  had  come  back  to  the  friends,  the  horses,  the 
dogs,  the  rooms,  the  gardens,  the  fields,  the  forests,  of  youth, 
and  was  going  to  be  the  real  Vixen  again  ; the  wild,  thought- 
less, high-spirited  girl  Squire  Tempest  and  all  the  peasantry 
round  about  had  loved. 

“ I have  been  ridiculously  well-behaved,”  she  said  to  herself, 
“ quite  a second  edition  of  mamma.  But  now  I am  back  in  the 
forest  my  good  manners  may  go  hang.  ‘ My  foot’s  on  my  na- 
tive heath,  and  my  name  is  M’Gregor.’  ” 

Somehow,  in  all  her  thoughts  of  home — after  that  burst  of 
grief  for  her  dead  father — Eoderick  Vawdrey  was  the  central 
figure.  He  filled  the  gap  cruel  death  had  made. 

Would  Rorie  come  soon  to  see  her  ? Would  he  be  very  glad 
to  have  her  at  home  again  ? What  would  he  think  of  her  ? 
Would  he  fancy  her  changed  ? For  the  worse  ? For  the  better  ? 

“I  wonder  whether  he  would  like  my  good  manners  or  the 
original  Vixen  best?”  she  speculated. 

The  morning  wore  on,  and  still  Violet  Tempest  sat  idly  by  the 
fire.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  that  Roderick  would  come  to 
see  her  at  once.  She  was  sufficiently  aware  of  her  own  impor- 
tance to  feel  sure  that  the  fact  of  her  return  had  been  duly 
chronicled  in  the  local  papers.  He  would  come  to-day,  before 
luncheon  perhaps,  and  they  three,  mamma,  Rorie,  and  herself, 
would  sit  at  the  round  table  in  the  library — ^the  snug  warm 
room  where  they  had  so  often  sat  with  papa.  This  thought 
brought  back  the  bitterness  of  her  loss. 

“ I can  bear  it  better  if  Rorie  is  with  us,”  she  thought,  “and 
he  IS  almost  sure  to  come.  He  would  not  be  so  unkind  as  to  de- 
lay bidding  welcome  to  such  poor  lonely  creatures  as  mamma 
and  I.” 

She  looked  at  her  little  watch,  a miniature  hunter  in  a case  of 
black  enamel,  with  a monogram  of  diamonds,  one  of  her  fath- 
er’s last  gifts.  It  was  one  o’clock  already,  and  luncheon  would 
be  at  half  past. 

“ Only  half  an  hour  for  Rorie,”  she  thought. 

The  minute-hand  crept  slowly  to  the  half  hour,  the  luncheon 


VIXEN.  75 

gong  sounded  below,  and  there  had  been  no  announcement  of 
Mr.  Vawdrey. 

“ He  may  be  down-stairs  with  mamma  all  this  timej”  thought 
Vixen.  “ Forbes  would  not  tell  me  unless  he  were  sent.” 

She  went  down-stairs  and  met  Forbes  in  the  hall. 

“ Oh,  if  you  please,  ma'am,  Mrs.  Tempest  does  not  feel  equal 
to  coming  down  to  luncheon.  She  will  take  a wing  of  chicken 
in  her  own  room.” 

“ And  I don’t  feel  equal  to  sitting  in  the  library  alone,  Forbes,” 
said  Violet;  “ so  you  may  tell  Phoebe  to  bring  me  a cup  of  tea 
and  a biscuit.  Has  nobody  called  this  morning  V” 

“No,  ma’am.” 

Vixen  went  back  to  her  room,  out  of  spirits,  and  out  of 
temper.  It  was  unkind  of  Rorie,  cold,  neglectful,  heartless. 

“ If  he  had  come  home  after  an  absence  of  two  years — absence 
under  such  sad  circumstances — how  anxious  1 should  be  to  see 
him  I”  she  thought.  “ But  I dare  say  it  is  a hunting  day,  and 
he  is  tearing  across  the  gorse  on  some  big  raw-boned  horse,  and 
not  giving  me  a thought.  Or  perhaps  he  is  dancing  attendance 
upon  Lady  Mabel.  But  no,  I don't  think  he  cares  much  for 
that  kind  of  thing.” 

She  moved  about  the  room  a little,  re-arranging  things  that 
were  already  arranged  exactly  as  she  had  left  them  two  years 
ago.  She  opened  a book  and  flung  it  aside,  tried  the  piano,  wbicli 
sounded  muffled  and  woolly. 

“ My  poor  Broad  wood  is  no  better  for  being  out  at  grass,”  she 
said. 

She  w^ent  to  one  of  the  windows  and  stood  there  looking  out, 
expecting  every  instant  to  see  a dog-cart,  with  a rakish  fiorse, 
a wasp-like  body,  and  high  red  wheels,  spin  round  the  curve  of 
the  shrubbery.  She  stood  thus  for  a long  time,  as  she  had  done 
on  that  wet  October  afternoon  of  Rorie’s  home-coming,  but  no 
rakish  horse  came  swinging  round  the  curve  of  the  carriage 
drive.  The  flying  snow  drifted  past  the  wdndow;  the  winter 
sky  looked  blue  and  clear  between  the  brief  showers;  the  tall 
feathery  flr-trees  and  straight  slim  cypresses  stood  up  against 
the  afternoon  light,  and  Vixen  gazed  at  them  with  angry  eyes, 
full  of  resentment  against  Roderick  Vawdrey. 

“ The  ground  is  too  hard  for  the  scent  to  lie  w^ell;  that’s  one 
comfort,”  she  reflected  savagely. 

And  then  she  thought  of  the  dear  old  kennels  given  over  to  a 
new  master— the  hounds  whose  names  and  idiosyncrasies  she 
had  known  as  well  as  if  they  had  been  human  acquaintances. 
She  had  lost  all  interest  in  them  now.  Ponto  and  Gellert,  Light- 
foot,  Juno,  Ringlet,  Lord  Dundreary — they  had  forgotten  her, 
no  doubt. 

Here  was  some  one  at  last,  but  not  the  one  for  whom  she  was 
watching.  A figure  clothed  in  a long  loose  black  cloak  and 
slouched  felt  hat,  and  carrying  a weedy  umbrella,  trudged  stur- 
dily around  the  curve,  and  came  briskly  toward  the  porch.  It 
was  Mr.  Scobel,  the  incumbent  of  the  little  Gothic  church  in  the 
village — a church  like  a toy. 

He  was  a good  man  and  a benevolent,  this  Mr.  Scobel,  a hard 


78 


VIXEN. 


worker,  and  a blessing  in  the  neighborhood.  But  just  at  this 
moment  Violet  Tempest  did  not  feel  grateful  to  him  for  coming. 

“What  does  he  want?”  she  thought.  “Blankets  and  coals 
and  things,  I suppose.” 

She  turned  sullenly  from  the  window,  and  went  back  to  her 
seat  by  the  fire,  and  threw  on  a log,  and  gave  herself  up  to  dis- 
appointment. The  blue  winter  sky  had  changed  to  gray;  the 
light  was  fading  behind  the  feathery  fir-tops.  * 

“Perhaps  he  will  come  to  afternoon  tea,”  she  thought;  and 
then,  with  a discontented  shrug  of  her  shoulders:  “ No,  he  is  not 
coming  at  all.  If  he  cared  about  us,  he  would  have  been  the 
first  to  bid  us  welcome,  knowing,  as  he  must,  how  miserable  it 
was  for  me  to  come  home  at  all— without  papal” 

She  sat  looking  at  the  fire. 

“ How  idle  I ami”  she  mused;  “ and  poor  Crokey  did  so  im- 
plore me  to  go  on  with  my  education,  and  read  some  useful 
books,  and  enlarge  my  mind.  I don’t  think  my  poor  little  mind 
would  bear  any  more  stretching,  or  that  I should  be  much  hap- 
pier if  I knew  all  about  Central  Africa,  and  the  nearest  way 
from  Hindostan  to  China,  or  old  red  sandstone,  and  tertiary, 
and  the  rest  of  them.  What  does  it  matter  to  me  what  the 
earth  is  made  of,  if  I can  but  be  happy  upon  it  ? No,  I shall 
never  try  to  be  learned.  I shall  read  Byron  and  Tennyson  and 
Wordsworth  and  Keats  and  Bulwer  and  Dickens  and  Thack- 
eray, and  remain  an  ignoramus  all  the  days  of  my  life.  I think 
that  would  be  quite  enough  for  Eorie,  if  he  and  I were  ever  to 
be  much  together;  for  I don’t  believe  he  ever  opens  a book  at 
all.  And  what  would  be  the  use  of  my  talking  to  him  about  old 
red  sandstone  or  the  center  of  Africa  ?” 

Phoebe,  Miss  Tempest’s  fresh-faced  Hampshire  maid,  appeared 
at  this  moment. 

“ Oh,  if  you  please,  miss,  your  ma  says  would  you  go  to  the 
drawing-room?  Mr.  Scobel  is  with  her,  and  would  like  to  see 
you.” 

Violet  rose  with  a sigh. 

“ Is  my  hair  awfully  untidy,  Phoebe  ?” 

“ I think  I had  better  arrange  the  plaits,  miss.” 

“ That  means  that  I’m  an  object.  It’s  four  o’clock.  I may  as 
well  change  my  dress  for  dinner.  I suppose  I must  go  down  to 
dinner.” 

“ Lor,  yes,  miss;  it  will  never  do  to  shut  yourself  up  in  j^our 
own  room  and  fret.  You’re  as  pale  as  them  Christmas  roses 
already.” 

Ten  minutes  later  Vixen  went  down  to  the  drawing-room, 
looking  very  stately  in  her  black  Irish  poplin,  whose  heavy  folds 
became  the  tall  full  figure,  and  whose  dense  blackness  set  off 
tlie  ivory  skin  and  warm  auburn  hair.  She  had  given  just  one 
passing  glance  at  herself  in  the  cheval-glass,  and  vanity  had 
whispered : 

“ Perhaps  Rorie  would  have  thought  me  improved,  but  he  has 
not  taken  the  trouble  to  come  and  see.  I might  be  honey- 
combed by  the  small-pox,  or  bald  from  the  effects  of  the  typhus, 
for  aught  he  cares.” 


VIXEN. 


77 


The  drawing-room  was  all  aglow  with  blazing  logs,  and  the 
sky  outside  the  windows  looking  pale  and  gray,  when  Violet 
went  in.  Mrs.  Tempest  was  in  her  favorite  arm-chair  by  the 
fire,  Tennyson’s  latest  poem  on  the  velvet  colored  gypsy  table 
at  her  side,  in  company  with  a large  black  fan  and  a smelling- 
bottle.  Mr.  Scobel  was  sitting  in  a low  chair  on  the  other  side 
of  the.  hearth,  with  his  knees  almost  up  to  his  chin,  and  his 
trousers  wrinkled  up  ever  so  far  above  his  stout  Oxford  shoes, 
leaving  a considerable  interval  of  gray  stocking.  He  was  a man 
of  about  thirty,  pale,  and  unpretending  of  aspect,  who  fortified 
his  native  modesty  with  a pair  of  large  binoculars,  which  inter- 
posed a kind  of  barrier  between  himself  and  the  outer  world. 

He  rose  as  Violet  came  toward  him,  and  turned  the  binoculars 
upon  her,  glittering  in  the  glow  of  the  fire. 

“ How  tall  you  have  grown!”  he  cried,  when  they  had  shaken 

hands.  “And  how ” Here  he  stopped,  with  a little  nervous 

laugh,  “ I really  don’t  think  I should  have  known  you  if  we 
had  met  elsewhere.’ 

“ Perhaps  Eorie  would  hardly  know  me,”  thought  Vixen. 

“ How  are  all  the  poor  people  ?”  she  asked,  when  Mr.  Scobel 
had  resumed  his  seat,  and  was  placidly  caressing  his  knees,  and 
blinking,  or  seeming  to  blink,  at  the  fire  v ith  his  binoculars. 

“ Oh,  poor  souls!”  he  sighed.  “ There  has  been  a great  deal  of 
sickness  and  distress,  and  people  out  of  work.  Yes,  a great 
deal.  The  winter  began  early,  and  we  have  had  ^me  severe 
weather.  James  Parsons  is  in  prison  again  for  rabbit-snaring. 
Mrs.  Koper’s  eldest  son,  Tom — I dare  say  you  remember  Tom,  an 
idle  little  ruffian,  who  was  always  birdnesting — has  managed  to 
get  himself  run  over  by  a pair  of  Lord  Ellangowan’s  wagon- 
horses,  and  now  Lady  Ellangowan  is  keeping  the  whole  family. 
An  aunt  came  from  Salisbury  to  sit  up  with  the  boy,  and  was 
quite  angry  because  Lady  Ellangowan  did  not  pay  her  for  nurs- 
ing him.” 

“ That’s  the  worst  of  the  poor,”  said  Mrs.  Tempest,  languidly, 
the  fire-light  playing  upon  her  diamond  rings  as  she  took  her 
fan  from  the  velvet  table  and  slowly  unfolded  it  to  protect  her 
cheek  from  the  glare;  “ they  are  never  satisfied.” 

“ Isn’t  it  odd  they  are  not,”  cried  Vixen,  coming  suddenly  out 
of  a deep  reverie,  “ When  they  have  everything  that  can  make 
life  delightful.” 

“ I don’t  know  about  everything,  Violet;  but  really,  when  they 
have  such  nice  cottages  as  your  dear  papa  built  for  them,  so  w^ell 
drained  and  ventilated,  they  ought  to  be  more  contented.” 

“ What  a comfort  good  drainage  and  ventilation  must  be  when 
there  is  no  bread  in  the  larder!”  said  Violet. 

“My  dear,  it  is  ridiculous  to  talk  in  thatwray;  just  in  the  style 
of  horrid  Radical  newspapers.  I am  sure  the  poor  have  an  im- 
mense deal  done  for  them.  Look  at  Mr.  Scobel:  he  is  always 
trying  to  help  them.” 

“I  do  what  I can,”  said  the  clergyman,  modestly;  “but  I 
only  wish  it  w’ere  more.  An  income  of  sixteen  shillings  j.  week 
for  a family  of  seven  requires  a good  deal  of  eking  out.  If  it  were 


78 


VIXEN. 


not  for  the  assistance  I get  here,  and  in  one  or  two  other  direc- 
tions, things  would  be  very  bad  in  Beechdale.” 

Beechdale  was  the  name  of  the  village  nearest  the  Abbey 
House,  the  village  to  which  belonged  Mr.  Scobel’s  toy  church. 

“ Of  course  we  must  have  the  usual  distribution  of  blankets 
and  wearing  apparel  on  Christmas  Eve,”  said  Mrs.  Tempest.  “ It 
will  seem  very  sad  without  my  dear  husband.  But  we  came 
home  before  Christmas  on  purpose.” 

“ How  good  of  youl  It  was  very  sad  last  year  when  the  poor 
people  came  up  to  the  hall  to  receive  your  gifts,  and  there  were 
no  familiar  faces  except  the  servants.  There  were  a good  many 
tears  shed  over  last  year’s  blankets,  I assure  you.’' 

“Poor  dear  things!”  sighed  Mrs.  Tempest,  not  making  it  too 
clear  whether  she  meant  the  blankets  or  the  recipients  thereof. 

Violet  said  nothing  after  her  little  ironical  protest  about  the 
poor.  She  sat  opposite  the  fire,  between  her  mother  and  Mr. 
Scobel,  but  at  some  distance  from  both.  The  ruddy  light  glowed 
on  her  ruddy  hair,  and  lit  up  her  pale  cheeks  and  shone  in  her 
brilliant  eyes.  The  incumbent  of  Beechdale  thought  he  had 
never  seen  anything  so  lovely.  She  was  like  a painted  window 
— a Madonna,  with  the  glowing  color  of  Kubens,  the  divine 
grace  of  Raffaelle.  And  those  little  speeches  about  the  poor  had 
warmed  his  heart.  He  was  Violet’s  friend  and  champion  from 
that  moment. 

Mrs.  Tempest  fanned  herself  listlessly. 

“ I wish  Forbes  would  bring  the  tea,”  she  said. 

“Shall  I ring,  mamma?” 

“ No,  dear.  They  have  not  finished  tea  in  the  housekeeper’s 
room,  perhaps.  Forbes  doesn’t  like  to  be  disturbed.  Is  there 
any  news,  Mr.  Scobel  ? We  only  came  home  yesterday  evening, 
and  have  seen  no  one.” 

“ News.  Well,  no,  I think  not  much.  Lady  Ellangowan  has 
got  a new  orchid.” 

“ And  there  has  been  a new  baby,  too,  hasn’t  there  ?” 

“ Oh,  yes.  But  nobody  talks  about  the  baby,  and  everybody 
is  in  raptures  with  the  orchid.” 

“ What  is  it  like  ?” 

“ Eather  a fine  boy.  I christened  him  last  week.” 

“ I mean  the  orchid.” 

“ Oh,  something  really  magnificent;  a brilliant  blue,  a butter- 
fly-shaped  blossom  that  positively  looks  as  if  it  were  alive.  They 
say  Lord  Ellangowan  gave  five  hundred  guineas  for  it.  People 
come  from  the  other  side  of  the  county  to  see  it.” 

“ I think  you  all  orchid  mad,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tempest.  “ Oh, 
here  comes  the  tea!”  as  Forbes  entered  with  the  old  silver  tray 
and  Swansea  cups  and  saucers.  “ You’ll  take  some,  of  course, 
Mr.  Scobel.  I cannot  understand  this  rage  for  orchids.  Old 
china,  or  silver,  or  lace,  I can  understand;  but  orchids — ^things 
that  require  no  end  of  trouble  to  keep  them  alive,  and  which  I 
dare  say  are  as  common  as  buttercups  and  daises  in  the  savage 
places  where  they  grow.  There  is  Lady  Jane  Vawdrey  now,  a 
perfect  slave  to  the  orchid-houses.” 

Viokit’s  face  flamed  crimson  at  this  mention  of  Lady  Jane« 


VIXEK 


79 


Not  for  worlds  would  sbe  have  asked  a question  about  her  old 
playfellow,  though  she  was  dying  to  hear  about  him.  Happily 
no  one  saw  the  sudden  blush,  or  it  passed  for  a reflection  of  the 
fire  glow. 

“ Poor  Lady  Jane!”  sighed  the  incumbent  of  Beechdale,  look- 
ing very  solemn,  ‘‘she  has  gone  to  a land  in  which  there  are 
fairer  flowers  than  ever  grew  on  the  banks  of  the  Amazon,” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ?” 

“ Surely  you  have  heard — 

“ Nothing,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tempest.  “ I have  corresponded 
with  nobody  but  my  housekeeper  while  I have  been  away.  I 
am  a wretched  correspondent  at  the  best  of  times,  and  aJterdear 
Edward  s death  I was  too  weary,  too  depressed,  to  write  letters. 
What  is  the  matter  with  Lady  Jane  Vawdrey  ?” 

“ She  died  at  Florence  last  November  of  bronchitis.  She  was 
very  ill  last  winter,  and  had  to  be  taken  to  Cannes  for  the  early 
part  of  the  year.  But  she  came  back  in  April  quite  well  and 
strong,  as  every  one  supposed,  and  spent  the  summer  at  Briar- 
wood.  Her  doctors  told  her,  however,  that  she  was  not  to  risk 
another  winter  in  England,  so  in  September  she  went  to  Italy, 
taking  Lady  Mabel  with  her.” 

“And  Roderick?”  inquired  Vixen,  ‘‘He  went  with  them,  of 
course?” 

“Naturally,”  replied  Mr.  Scobel.  “ Mr.  Vawdrey  was  with  his 
mother  till  the  last. 

“Very  nice  of  him,”  murmured  !Mrs.  Tempest,  approvingly; 
“for  in  a general  way,  I don’t  think  they  got  on  too  well 
together.  Lady  Jane  was  rather  dictatorial.  And  nov7,  I sup- 
pose, Roderick  will  marry  his  cousin  as  soon  as  he  is  out  of 
mourning.” 

“Why  should  you  suppose  so  mamma?”  exclaimed  Violet, 
“ It  is  quite  a mistake  of  yours  about  their  being  engaged.  Rod- 
erick told  me  so  himself.  He  was  not  engaged  to  Lady  Mabel. 
He  had  not  the  least  idea  of  marrying  her.” 

“He  has  altered  his  mind  since  then,  I co:- elude,”  said  Mr. 
Scobel,  cheerily — those  binoculars  of  his  could  never  have  seen 
through  a stone  wall,  and  were  not  much  good  at  seeing  things 
under  his  nose — “ for  it  is  quite  a settled  thing  that  Mr.  Vawdrey 
and  Lady  Mabel  are  to  be  married.  It  will  be  a splendid  match 
for  him,  and  will  make  him  the  largest  land-owner  in  the  Foresf, 
for  Ashbourne  is  settled  on  Lady  Mabel.  The  duk<^  bought  it 
himself,  you  know,  and  it  is  not  in  the  entail,”  added  the  incum- 
bent, explaining  a fact  that  was  as  familiar  as  the  Church  Catt- 
chism  to  Violet,  who  sat  looking  straight  at  the  fire,  holding 
her  head  as  high  as  Queen  Guinevere  after  she  had  thrown  the 
diamonds  out  of  the  window. 

“I  always  knew  that  it  would  be  so,”  said  Mrs.  Tempest,  with 
the  air  of  a sage.  “Lady  Jane  had  set  her  heart  upon  it.  World- 
ly greatness  was  her  idol,  poor  thing!  It  is  sad  to  think  of  her 
being  snatched  away  from  everything.  What  has  become  of 
the  orchids  r” 

“Lady  Jane  left  them  to  her  niece.  They  are  building 
houses  to  receive  them  at  Ashbourne,” 


80 


VIXEN. 


‘‘Eather  a waste  of  money,  isn’t  it?”  suggested  Violet,  in  a 
cold,  hard  voice.  “Why  not  let  them  stay  at  Briar  wood  till 
Lady  Mabel  is  mistress  there  ?” 

Mr.  Scobel  did  not  enter  into  this  discussion.  He  sat  serenely 
gazing  at  the  fire  and  sipping  his  t^a,  enjoying  this  hour  of  rest 
and  warmth  after  a long  day’s  fatigue  and  hard  weather.  He 
had  an  Advent  service  at  seven  o'clock  that  evening,  and  would 
but  just  have  time  to  tramp  home  through  tlie  winter  dark  and 
take  a hurried  meal  before  he  ran  across  to  his  neat  little  vestry 
and  sliuffled  on  his  surplice,  while  Mrs.  Scobel  played  her  plain- 
tive voluntary  on  the  twenty-guinea  harmonium. 

“And  where  is  young  Vawdrey  now?”  ihqidred  Mrs.  Tem- 
pest, blandly. 

She  could  only  think  of  the  Squire  of  Briarwood  as  the  lad 
from  Eton — clumsy,  shy,  given  to  breaking  tea-cups  and  leaving 
the  track  of  his  footsteps  in  clay  or  mud  upon  the  Aubusson 
carpets. 

“ He  has  not  come  home  yet.  Tlie  duke  and  duchess  went  to 
Florence  just  before  Lady  Jane’s  death,  and  I believe  Mr.  Vaw- 
drey is  with  them  at  Rome.  Briarwood  has  been  shut  up  since 
September.” 

“ Didn’t  I tell  you,  mamma,  that  somebody  would  be  dead?” 
cried  Violet.  “ I felt  when  we  came  into  this  house  yesterday 
evening  that  everything*  in  our  lives  was  changed,” 

“ I should  hardly  think  mourning  can  be  very  becoming  to 
Lady  Mabel,”  ruminated  Mrs.  Tempest.  “Those  small,  sylph- 
like figures  rarely  look  well  in  black.” 

Mr.  Scobel  rose  with  an  effort  to  make  his  adieus.  The  deli- 
cious warmth  of  the  wood  fire,  the  perfume  of  arbutus  logs,  had 
made  him  sleepy. 

“ You’ll  come  and  see  our  new  school,  I hope,”  he  said  to 
Violet,  as  they  shook  hands.  “ You  and  your  dear  mamma 
have  contributed  so  largely  to  its  erection  that  you  have  a right 
to  be  critical;  but  I really  think  you  will  be  pleased.” 

“ We’ll  come  to-morrow  afternoon,  if  it’s  fine,”  said  Mrs. 
Tempest,  graciously.  “ You  must  bring  Mi*s.  Scobel  to  dinner 
at  seven,  and  then  we  can  talk  over  all  we  have  seen.” 

“ You  are  very  kind.  I’ve  my  young  women’s  Scripture  class 
at  a quarter  past  eight;  but  if  you  will  let  me  run  away  for  an 
hour ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ I can  come  back  for  Mrs.  Scobel.  Thanks.  We  shall  be  de- 
lighted.” 

When  he  was  gone  Violet  walked  toward  the  door  without  a 
word  to  her  mother. 

“ Violet,  are  you  going  away  again?  Tray  stop,  child,  and 
let  us  have  a chat.” 

“I  have  nothing  to  talk  about,  mamma.” 

“ Nonsense.  You  have  quite  deserted  me  since  we  came  home. 
And  do  you  suppose  I don’t  feel  dull  and  depressed  as  well  as 
you  ? It  is  not  dutiful  conduct,  Violet.  I shall  really  have  to 
engage  a companion  if  you  go  on  so.  Miss  M’Croke  was  dreary, 


VIXEN,  81 

but  she  was  not  altogether  uncompanionable.  One  could  talk 
to  her,” 

‘‘You  had  better  have  a companion,  mamma — some  one  who 
will  be  lively,  and  talk  pleasantly  about  nothing  particular  all 
day  long.  No  doubt  a well-trained  companion  can  do  that. 
She  has  an  inexhaustible  well-spring  of  twaddle  in  her  own 
mind,  I feel  as  if  I could  never  be  cheerful  again.” 

“ We  had  better  have  stopped  at  Brighton — ” 

“ I hate  Brighton!” 

“ Where  we  knew  so  many  nice  people 

“ 1 detest  nice  people!” 

“Violet,  do  you  know  that  you  have  an  abominable  temper?” 

“ I know  that  I am  made  up  of  wickedness,”  answered  Vixen, 
vehemently. 

She  left  the  room  without  another  word,  and  went  straight  to 
her  den  up-stairs,  not  to  throw  herself  on  the  ground  and 
abandon  herself  to  a childish,  unreasoning  grief,  as  she  had 
done  on  the  night  of  Koderick’s  coming  of  age,  but  to  face  the 
situation  boldly  in  the  strength  of  her  newly-fledged  woman- 
hood. She  walked  up  and  down  the  dim  fire-lit  room,  thinking 
of  what  she  had  just  heard. 

“What  does  it  matter  to  me?  Why  should  I be  so  angry?” 
she  asked  herself.  “We  were  never  more  than  friends  and  play- 
fellows. And  I think  that,  on  the  whole,  I rather  disliked  him. 
I know  I was  seldom  civil  to  him.  He  was  papa’s  favorite.  I 
should  hardly  have  tolerated  him  but  for  that.” 

She  felt  relieved  at  having  settled  this  point  in  her  mind.  Yet 
there  was  a dull  blank  sense  of  loss,  a vague  aching  in  her 
troubled  heart,  which  she  could  not  get  rid  of  easily.  She 
walked  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  while  the  fire  faded  out  and  the 
pale  windows  darkened. 

“I  hate  myself  for  being  so  vexed  about  this,”  she  said,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  above  her  head  with  a vehemence  that  showed  the 
intensity  of  her  vexation.  “ Could  I — I,  Violet  Tempest— ever 
be  so  despicable  a creature  as  to  care  for  a man  who  does  not 
care  for  me?  to  be  angry,  sorry,  broken-hearted,  because  a man 
does  not  want  me  for  his  wife?  Such  a thing  is  not  possible;  if 
it  were,  I think  I would  kill  myself.  I should  be  ashamed  to 
live.  I could  not  look  human  beings  in  the  face.  I should 
take  poison,  or  turn  Eoman  Catholic  and  go  into  a convent, 
where  I should  never  see  the  face  of  a man  again.  No;  I 
am  not  such  an  odious  creature.  I have  no  regard  for  Eorie 
except  as  my  old  playfellowj  and  when  he  comes  home  I 
will  walk  straight  up  to  him  and  give  him  my  hand,  and  con- 
gratulate him  heartily  on  his  approaching  marriageo  Perhaps 
Lady  Mabel  will  ask  me  to  be  one  of  her  bride-maids.  She  will 
have  a round  dozen,  I dare  say.  Six  in  pink  and  six  in  blue,  no 
doubt,  like  wax  dolls  at  a charity  fair.  Why  can’t  people  get 
married  without  making  idiots  of  themselves  ?” 

The  half-hour  gong  sounded  at  this  moment,  and  Vixen  ran 
down  to  the  drawing-room,  where  the  candles  and  lamps  were 
lighted,  an<i  where  there  was  plenty  of  light  literature  lying 
about  to  distract  the  troubled  mind.  Mrs.  Tempest  was  yawn- 


83 


VIXEN. 


ing  over  a review  of  Gladstone’s  last  Homeric  Opuscule,  in  the 
Pall  Mall  Gazette.  Yiolet  went  to  her  mother’s  chair  and  knelt 
beside  it. 

“ Dear  mamma,  forgive  me  for  being  cross  just  now,”  she  said, 
gently.  “ I was  out  of  spirits.  I will  try  to  be  better  company 
in  future — so  that  you  may  not  be  obliged  to  engage  a com- 
panion.” 

I “ My  dear,  I don’t  wonder  at  your  feeling  low-spirited,”  re- 
plied Mrs.  Tempest,  graciously.  ‘‘This  place  is  horribly  dull. 
How  we  ever  endured  it,  even  in  your  dear  papa’s  time,  is  more 
than  I can  understand.  It  is  like  living  on  the  ground-floor  of 
one  of  the  Egyptian  Pyramids.  We  must  really  get  some  nice 
people  about  us,  or  we  shall  both  go  melancholy  mad.” 


CHAPTER  XIL 

HE  BELONGS  TO  THE  TAME-CAT  SPECIES.” 

Life  went  on  smoothly  enough  at  the  Abbey  House  after  that 
evening.  Violet  tried  to  make  herself  happy  among  the  sur- 
roundings of  her  childhood,  petted  the  horses,  drove  her  basket- 
carriage  with  the  favorite  old  pony,  went  among  the  villagers, 
rode  her  thorough-bred  bay  for  long,  wild  explorations  of  the 
forest  and  neighboring  country,  looked  with  longing  eyes  some- 
times at  the  merry  groups  riding  to  the  meet,  and  went  her 
lonely  way  with  a heavy  heart.  No  more  hunting  for  her.  She 
could  not  hunt  alone,  and  she  had  declined  all  friendly  offers  of 
escort.  It  would  have  seemed  a treason  against  her  beloved 
dead  to  ride  across  country  by  any  one  else’s  side. 

Every  one  had  called  at  the  Abbey  House  and  welcomed  Mrs. 
Tempest  and  her  daughter  back  to  Hampshire.  They  had  been 
asked  to  a kettle-drum  at  Ellangowan  Park,  to  see  the  marvel- 
ous orchid.  They  had  been  iavited  to  half  a dozen  dinner  par- 
ties. 

Violet  tried  her  utmost  to  persuade  her  mother  that  it  was 
much  too  soon  after  her  father’s  death  to  think  of  visiting. 

“ My  dear  Violet,”  cried  the  widow,  “ after  going  to  that  ball 
at  Brighton,  we  could  not  possibly  dechne  invitations  here.  It 
wmuld  be  an  insult  to  our  friends.  If  we  had  not  gone  to  the 
ball ” 

“ We  ought  not  to  have  gone,”  exclaimed  Vixen. 

“ My  love,  you  should  have  said  so  at  the  time.” 

“Mamma,  you  know  I was  strongly  against  it.” 

Mrs.  Tempest  shrugged  her  shoulders,  as  who  should  say, 
“ This  is  too  much!” 

“I  know  your  dress  cost  a small  fortune,  and  that  you  danced 
every  waltz,  Violet,”  she  answered;  “ that  is  about  all  I do 
know.” 

“Very  well,  mamma,  let  us  accept  all  the  invitations.  Let  us 
be  as  merry  as  grigs.  Perhaps  it  will  make  papa  happier  in 
paradise  to  know  how  happy  we  are  without  him.  He  won’t  be 
troubled  by  any  uneasy  thoughts  about  our  grief,  at  aU  events,” 
added  Vixen,  with  a stifled  sob. 


VIXEN. 


83 


**  How  irreverently  you  talld”  Mr.  Scobel  would  be  dread- 
fully  shocked  to  hear  you,”  said  Mrs.  Tempest. 

The  invitations  were  all  accepted,  and  Mrs.  Tempest  was  in  a 
flutter  about  her  dresses  for  the  rest  of  the  winter.  She  was 
verv  particular  as  to  the  exact  shade  of  silver-  gray  or  lavender 
which  might  be  allowed  to  relieve  the  somber  mass  of  black, 
and  would  spend  a whole  morning  in  discussing  the  propriety  of 
a knot  of  scarlet  ribbon  ora  border  of  gold  passementerie. 

They  went  to  Ellangowan  Park  and  did  homage  to  the  won- 
derful orchid,  and  discussed  Roderick’s  engagement  to  the 
duke’s  only  daughter.  Everybody  said  that  it  was  Lady  Jane’s 
doing,  and  there  were  some  who  almost  implied  that  she  had 
died  on  purpose  to  bring  about  the  happy  conjuncture.  Yiolet 
was  able  to  talk  quite  pleasantly  about  the  marriage,  and  to 
agree  with  everybody’s  praises  of  Lady  Mabel’s  beauty,  elegance, 
good  style,  and  general  perfection. 

Christmas  and  the  New-Year  went  by,  not  altogether  sadly. 
It  is  not  easy  for  youth  to  be  full  of  sorrow.  The  clouds  come 
and  go;  there  are  always  glimpses  of  sunshine.  Violet  was  grate- 
ful for  the  kindness  that  greeted  her  everywhere  among  her  old 
friends,  and  perhaps  a little  glad  of  the  evident  admiration  her 
beauty  awakened  in  all  circles.  Life  was  just  tolerable,  after 
all.  She  thought  of  Roderick  Vawdrey  as  of  something  belong- 
ing to  the  past;  something  wdiich  had  no  part,  never  would  have 
any  part,  in  her  future  life.  He  too  was  dead  and  passed  away, 
like  her  father.  Lady  Mabel’s  husband,  the  master  of  Briar- 
wood  in  esse  and  of  Ashbourne  in  posse,  was  quite  a different 
being  from  the  rough  lad  with  whom  she  had  played  at  battle- 
door  and  shuttlecock,  billiards,  croquet,  and  prison er’s-base. 

Early  in  February  Mrs.  Tempest  informed  her  daughter  that 
she  was  going  to  give  a dinner. 

“ It  will  seem  very  dreadful  wdthout  dearest  Edward,”  she 
said;  “but  of  course,  having  accepted  hospitalities,  we  are  bound 
to  return  them.” 

“ Do  you  really  think  we  ought  to  burst  out  into  dinner  parties 
BO  soon,  mamma?” 

“Yes,  dear,  as  we  accepted  the  dinners.  If  we  had  not  gone, 
it  would  have  been  different.” 

“ Ah,”  sighed  Vixen,  “ I suppose  it  all  began  with  that  ball  at 
Brighton,  like  ‘ Man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit ’ ” 

“ I shall  miss  poor  M’Croke  to  fill  in  the  invitation  cards.” 

“ Let  me  do  it,  mamma.  I can  write  a decent  hand.  That  is 
, one  of  the  few  lady-like  accomplishments  I have  been  able  to 
master;  and  even  that  is  open  to  objection  as  being  too  mascu- 
line.” 

“ If  you  would  slope  more,  Violet,  and  make  your  up-strokes 
finer,  and  not  cross  your  T’s  so  undeviatingly,”  Mrs.  Tempest 
murmured,  amiably.  “ A lady’s  T ought  to  be  less  pronounced. 
There  is  something  too  assertive  in  your  consonants.” 

Violet  wrote  the  cards.  The  dinner  was  to  be  quite  a grand 
affair.  Three  weeks’  notice,  and  a French  cook  from  the  Dolphin 
at  Southampton  to  take  the  conduct  of  affairs  in  the  kitcheu ; 
whereby  the  Abbey  House  cook  declared  afterward  that  there 


84 


VIXEN. 


was  nothing  that  Frenchman  did  which  she  could  not  have  done 
as  well,  and  that  his  wastefulness  was  enough  to  make  a Christian 
woman’s  hair  stand  on  end. 

Three  days  before  the  dinner,  Vixen  riding  Arion  home 
through  the  shrubbery  after  a long  morning  in  the  forest,  was 
startled  by  the  vision  of  a dog-cart  a few  yards  in  front  of  her — 
a cart,  which,  at  the  first  glance,  she  concluded  must  belong  to 
Eoderick  Vawdrey.  The  wheels  were  red,  the  horse  had  a raMsh 
air,  the  light  vehicle  swung  from  side  to  side  as  it  span  around 
the  curve. 

No,  that  slim  figure,  that  neat  waist,  that  military  air,  did  not 
belong  to  Eoderick  Vawdrey, 

“He  here!”  ejaculated  Vixen,  inwardly,  with  infinite  digust. 
“ I hoped  we  had  seen  the  last  of  him.” 

She  had  been  out  for  two  hours  and  a half,  and  felt  that  Arion 
had  done  quite  enough,  or  she  would  have  turned  her, horse’s 
head  and  gone  back  to  the  forest  in  order  to  avoid  this  unwel- 
come visitor. 

“ I only  hope  mamma  won’t  enccurage  him  to  come  here,”  she 
thought:  “but  I’m  afraid  that  smooth  tongue  of  his  has  too 
much  influence  over  her.  And  I haven’t  even  poor  Crokey  to 
stand  by  me.  I shall  feel  like  a bird  transfixed  by  the  wicked 
green  eyes  of  a velvet-pawed  murdering  cat. 

“ And  I have  not  a friend  in  the  world,”  she  thought.  “ Plenty 
of  pleasant  acquaintance,  ready  to  simper  at  me  and  pay  me 
compliments  because  I am  Miss  Tempest  of  the  Abbey  House, 
but  not  one  honest  friend  to  stand  by  me,  and  turn  that  "man  out 
of  doors.  How  dare  he  come  here  ? I thought  I spoke  plainly 
enough  that  night  at  Brighton.” 

She  rode  slowly  up  to  the  house,  slipped  lightly  out  of  her 
saddle,  and  led  her  horse  round  to  the  stables,  just  as  she  had 
led  the  pony  in  her  happy  childish  days.  The  bright  thorough- 
bred bay  was  as  fond  of  her  as  if  he  had  been  a dog,  and  as  tame. 
She  stood  by  his  manger  caressing  him  while  he  ate  his  corn, 
and  feeling  very  safe  from  Captain  Carmichael’s  society  in  the 
sweet  clover- scented  stable. 

She  dawdled  away  half  a hour  in  this  manner  before  she  went 
back  to  the  house  and  ran  up  to  her  dressing-room. 

“ If  mamma  sends  for  me  now,  I sha  n’t  be  able  to  go  down,” 
she  thought.  “He  can  hardly  stay  more  than  an  hour.  Oh, 
horror!  he  is  a tea-drinker;  mamma  will  persuade  him  to  stop 
till  five  o’clock.’^ 

Violet  dawdled  over  her  change  of  dress  as  she  had  dawdled 
in  the  stable.  She  had  never  been  more  particular  about  her 
hair. 

“I’ll  have  it  all  taken  down,  Phoebe,”  she  told  her  abigail; 
“ I’m  in  no  hurry.” 

“ But  really,  miss,  it’s  beautiful 

“Nonsense — after  a windy  ride.  Don’t  be  lazy,  Phoebe.  You 
may  give  my  hair  a good  brushing  while  I read.” 

A tap  at  the  door  came  at  this  moment,  and  Phoebe  ran  to 
open  it 


VIXEN.  85 

“ lilrs.  Tempest  wishes  Miss  Tempest  to  come  down  to  the 
drawing-room  directly,”  said  a voice  in  the  corridor. 

“There  now,  miss,”  cried  Phoebe,  “how lucky  I didn’t  take 
your  hair  down!  It  never  was  nicer.” 

Violet  put  on  her  black  dress,  costly  and  simple  as  the  attire 
Polonius  recommended  to  his  son.  Mrs.  Tempest  might  relieve 
her  costume  with  what  bright  or  delicate  hues  she  liked.  Vio- 
let had  worn  nothing  but  black  since  her  father's  death.  Her 
sole  ornaments  were  a pair  of  black  ear-rings,  and  a large,  black 
enamel  locket,  with  one  big  diamond  shining  in  the  middle  of  it 
like  an  eye.  This  locket  held  the  squire’s  portrait,  and  his 
daughter  wore  it  constantly. 

The  Louis  Quatorze  clock  on  the  staircase  struck  five  as  Vio- 
let went  down. 

“ Of  course  he  is  staying  for  tea,”  she  thought,  with  an  im- 
patient shrug  of  her  shoulders.  “He  belongs  to  the  tame- cat 
species,  and  has  an  inexhaustible  flow  of  gossip,  spiced  with 
mild  malevolence.  The  kind  of  frivolous  ill  nature  which  says: 
*1  would  not  do  any  one  harm  for  the  world,  but  one  may' as 
well  think  the  worst  of  everybody.’  ” 

Yes,  kettle-drum  was  in  full  swing.  Mrs.  Scobel  had  come 
over  from  her  tiny  vicarage  for  half  an  hour’s  chat,  and  was 
sitting  opposite  her  hostess’s  fire,  while  Captain  Carmichael 
lounged  with  his  back  to  the  canopied  chimney-piece,  and  looked 
benignantly  down  upon  the  two  ladies.  The  Queen  Anne  kettle 
was  hissing  merrily  over  its  spirit-lamp,  the  perfume  of  the 
pekoe  was  delicious,  the  logs  blazed  cheerily  in  the  low  fireplace 
with  its  shining  brass  andirons.  Not  a repulsive  picture, 
assuredlv;  yet  Vixen  came  slowly  toward  this  charming  circle, 
looking  black  as  thunder. 

Captain  Carmichael  hurried  forward  to  receive  her. 

“ How  do  you  do?”  she  said,  as  stiffly  as  a child  brought  down 
to  the  drawing-room  bristling  in  newly-brushed  hair  and  a best 
frock;  and  then,  turning  to  her  mother,  she  asked,  curtly, 
“ What  did  you  want  with  me,  mamma  ?” 

“ It  was  Captain  Carmichael  who  asked  to  see  you,  my  dear. 
Won’t  you  have  some  tea?” 

“ Thanks,  no,”  said  Vixen,  seating  herself  in  a corner  between 
Mrs.  Scobel  and  the  mantel-piece,  and  beginning  to  talk  about 
the  schools. 

Conrad  Carmichael  gave  her  a curious  look  from  under  his 
dark  brows,  and  then  went  on  talking  to  her  mother.  He 
seemed  hardly  disconcerted  by  her  rudeness. 

“ Yes,  I assure  you,  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  the  harriers,  Brighton 
would  have  been  unbearable  after  you  left,”  he  said.  “ I went 
over  to  Paris  directly  the  frost  set  in.  But  I don’t  wonder  you 
were  anxious  to  come  back  to  such  a lovely  old  place  as  this.” 

“I  felt  it  a duty  to  come  back,”  said  Mrs.  Tempest,  with  a 
pious  air.  “But  it  was  very  sad  at  first.  I never  felt  so  un- 
happy in  my  life.  I am  getting  more  reconciled  now.  Time 
sol  tens  all  griefs.” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  captain,  in  a louder  tone  than  before,  “Time 


86  VIXEN. 

13  a clever  horse.  There  is  nothihg  he  won't  beat,  if  you  know 
how  to  ride  him.” 

“You’ll  take  some  tea?”  insinuated  Mrs.  Tempest,  her  atten- 
tion absorbed  by  the  silver  kettle,  which  was  just  now  conduct- 
ing itself  as  spitfirishly  as  any  blackened  block-tin  on  a kitchen 
hob. 

“ I can  never  resist  it.  And  perhaps  after  tea  you  will  be  so 
good  as  to  give  me  the  treat  you  talked  about  just  now.” 

“ To  show  you  the  house?”  said  Mrs.  Tempest.  “ Do  you  think 
we  shall  have  light  enough  ?’* 

“ Abundance.  An  old  liouse  like  this  is  seen  at  its  best  in  the 
twilight.  Don’t  you  think  so,  IVIrs.  Scobel  ?” 

‘ ‘ Oh,  yes,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Scobel,  with  a lively  recollection  of 
her  album.  “ ‘ They  who  would  see  Melrose  aright,  should  see 
it  ’ — I think,  by  the  bye.  Sir  Walter  Scott  says,  ‘ by  moonlight.’  ” 

“ Yes,  for  an  an  ancient  Gothic  abbey;  but  twilight  is  better 
for  a Tudor  manor-house.  Are  you  sure  it  will  not  fatigue  you  ?” 
inquired  the  captain,  with  an  air  of  solicitude,  as  Mrs.  Tempest 
rose  languidly. 

“ No;  I shall  be  very  pleased  to  show  you  the  dear  old  place. 
It  is  full  of  sad  associations,  of  course,  but  I do  not  allow  my 
mind  to  dwell  upon  them  more  than  I can  help.” 

“ No,”  cried  Vixen,  bitterly.  “ We  go  to  dinner  parties  and 
kettle-drums,  and  go  into  raptures  about  orchids  and  old  china, 
and  try  to  cure  our  broken  hearts  that  way.” 

“Are  you  coming,  Violet?”  asked  her  mother,  sweetly. 

“ No,  thanks,  mamma.  I am  tired  after  my  ride.  Mrs.  IBcobel 
will  help  you  to  play  cicerone.” 

Captain  Carmichael  left  the  room  without  so  much  as  a look 
at  Violet  Tempest.  Yet  her  rude  reception  had  galled  him  more 
than  any  cross  that  Fate  had  lately  inflicted  upon  him.  He  had 
fancied  that  time  would  have  softened  her  feeling  toward  him, 
that  rural  seclusion  and  the  society  of  rustic  nobodies  would  have 
made  him  appear  at  an  advantage,  that  she  would  have  wel- 
comed the  brightness  and  culture  of  metropolitan  life  in  his  per- 
son. He  I ad  hoped  a great  deal  from  the  lapse  of  time  since 
their  last  meeting.  But  this  sullen  reception,  this  silent  expres- 
sion of  dislike,  told  him  that  Violet  Tempest’s  aversion  was  a 
plant  of  deep  root. 

“ The  first  woman  who  ever  disliked  mo,”  he  thought.  “No 
wonder  that  she  interests  me  more  than  other  women.  She  is 
like  that  chestnut  mare  that  threw  me  six  times  before  I got  the 
better  of  her.  Yet  she  proved  the  best  horse  I ever  had,  and  I 
rode  her  for  twice  the  money  she  cost  me.  There  are  two  con- 
quests a man  can  make  over  a women — one  to  make  her  love 
liim,  the  other ” 

“ That  suit  of  chain-armor  was  worn  by  Sir  Gilbert  Tempest 
at  Acre,”  said  the  widow.  “ The  plate-armor  belonged  to  Sir 
Percy,  who  was  killed  at  Barnet.  Each  of  them  was  knighted 
before  he  was  five-and-twenty  years  old  for  prowess  in  the  field. 
The  portrait  over  the  chimney-piece  is  the  celebrated  Judge 
Tempest,  who  was  famous  for Well,  he  did  something  won- 


VIXEN.  87 

derful,  I know.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Scobel  rera embers,”  concluded 
Mrs.  Tempest,  feebly. 

“It  was  at  the  "trial  of  the  seven  bishops,”  suggested  the 
vicar’s  wife. 

“In  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,”  assented  Mrs.  Tempest. 
“ That  one  with  the  lace  cravat  and  steel  breastplate,  was  an 
admiral  in  Charles  the  Second’s  reign,  and  was  made  a baronet 
after  the  repulse  of  the  Dutch  fleet  at  Flushing.  Tlie  baronetcy 
died  with  his  son,  who  left  only  daughters.  Tlie  eldest  married 
a Mr.  Percival,  who  took  the  name  of  Tempest,  and  sat  for  the 

borough  of Perhaps  Mrs.  Scobel  knows.  I have  such  a bad 

memory  for  these  things,  though  I have  heard  my  dear  husband 
talk  about  them  so  often.” 

Captain  Carmichael  looked  round  the  great  oak-paneled  hall 
dreamily,  and  heard  very  little  of  Mrs.  Tempest’s  vague  prattling 
about  her  husband’s  ancestors. 

What  a lovely  old  place!  he  was  thinking.  A house  that  would 
give  a man  importance  in  the  land,  supported,  as  it  was,  by  an 
estate  bringing  in  something  between  five  and  six  thousand  a 
year.  IIow  much  military  distinction,  how  many  battles  must 
a soldier  win  before  he  could  make  himself  master  of  such  a 
fortune! 

“ And  it  needed  but  for  that  girl  to  hke  me,  and  a little  gold 
ring  would  have  given  me  the  freehold  of  it  all,”  thought  Con- 
rad Carmichael,  bitterly. 

How  many  penniless  girls,  or  girls  with  fortunes  so  far  be- 
neath the  measure  of  a fine  gentleman’s  needs  as  to  be  useless, 
had  been  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  the  elegant  captain! 
how  many  pretty  girls  had  tempted  him  by  their  beauty  and 
winsoineness  to  be  false  to  his  grand  principle  that  marriage 
meant  promotion!  And  here  was  an  obstinate  minx  who  would 
have  realized  all  his  aims,  and  whom  he  felt  himself  a,ble  to  love 
to  distraction  into  the  bargain,  and,  behold!  some  adverse  devil 
had  entered  into  her  mind  and  made  Conrad  Carmichael  hateful 
to  her, 

“It’s  like  witchcraft,”  he  said  to  himself.  “ Why  should  this 
one  woman  be  different  from  all  other  women  ? Perhaps  it’s 
the  color.  That  ruddy  auburn  hair,  the  loveliest  I ever  saw, 
means  temper.  But  I conquered  the  chestnut,  and  I'll  conquer 
Miss  Tempest— or  make  her  smart  for  it.” 

“A  handsome  music-gallery,  is  it  not?”  said  the  widow, 
“ The  carved  balustrade  is  generally  admired.” 

Then  they  went  into  the  dining-room,  and  looked  at  about  a 
dozen  large  dingy  pictures  of  the  Italian  school,  which  a man 
who  knew  anything  about  art  would  have  condemned  at  a 
glance.  Fine  examples  of  brown  varnish,  all  of  them.  Thence 
to  the  library,  lined  with  books,  which  nobody  had  opened  for  a 
generation — Livy,  Gibbon,  Hume,  Burke,  Smollett,  Plutarch, 
Thomson.  These  sages,  clad  in  shiny  brown  leather  and  gild- 
ing, made  as  good  a lining  for  the  walls  as  anything  else,  and 
gave  an  air  of  snugness  to  the  room  in  which  the  family  dined 
when  there  was  no  company.  They  came  presently  to  the 
squire’s  den,  at  the  end  of  a corridor. 


VIXEN. 


‘‘  That  was  my  dear  husband’s  study,”  sighed  Mrs.  Tempest. 
‘‘  It  looks  south,  into  the  rose  garden,  and  is  one  of  the  prettiest 
rooms  in  the  house.  But  we  keep  it  locked,  and  I think  Violet 
has  the  key.” 

“Pray  don’t  let  Miss  Tempest  be  disturbed.  I have  seen 
quite  enough  to  know  what  a delightful  house  you  have — all 
the  interest  of  days  that  are  gone,  all  the  luxuries  of  to-day.  I 
think  that  blending  of  past  and  present  is  most  fascinating.  I 
should  never  be  a severe  restorer  of  antiquitv,  or  refuse  to  sit  in 
a chair  that  wasn’t  undeniably  Gothic.” 

“ Ah,”  sighed  the  vicar’s  wife,  who  was  an  advanced  disciple  in 
the  school  of  Eastlake,  “but  don’t  you  think  everything  should 
be  in  harmony  ? If  I were  as  rich  as  Mrs.  Tempest,  I wouldn’t 
have  so  much  as  a tea-pot  that  was  not  strictly  Tudor.” 

“ Then  I’m  afraid  you’d  have  to  go  without  a tea-pot,  and 
drink  your  tea  out  of  a tankard,”  retorted  Captain  Carmichael. 

“At  any  rate,  I would  be  as  Tudor  as  I could  be.” 

“And  not  have  a brass  bedstead,  a spring  mattress,  or  a coal- 
scuttle in  your  house,”  said  the  captain.  “ My  dear  madam,  it 
is  all  very  well  to  be  mediaeval  in  matters  ecclesiastic,  but  home 
comforts  must  not  be  suppressed  in  the  pursuit  of  the  aesthetic, 
or  a modern  luxury  discarded  because  it  looks  like  an  anachron- 
ism.” 

Mrs.  Scobel  was  delighted  with  Captain  Carmichael.  He  was 
just  the  kind  of  man  to  succeed  in  a rustic  community.  His 
quiet  self-assurance  set  other  people  at  their  ease.  He  carried 
with  him  an  air  of  life  and  movement,  as  if  he  were  the  patentee 
of  a new  pleasure. 

“ My  husband  would  be  so  pleased  to  see  you  at  the  vicarage, 
if  you  are  staying  any  time  in  the  neighborhood,”  she  said. 

But  after  this  little  gush  of  friendliness,  she  reflected  that 
there  could  not  be  much  sympathy  between  the  man  of  society 
and  her  Anglican  parson;  and  that  it  was  she,  and  not  Ig- 
natius Scobel,  who  would  be  glad  to  see  Captain  Carmichael  at 
the  vicarage. 

“ I shall  be  charmed,”  he  replied.  “ I never  was  so  delighted 
with  any  place  as  your  Forest.  It  is  a new  world  to  me.  I hate 
myself  for  having  lived  in  England  so  long  without  knowing 
this  beautiful  corner  of  the  land.  I am  staying  with  my  old 
chief.  Colonel  Pryke,  at  Warham  Court,  and  I’m  only  here  for  a 
few  days.” 

“But  you  are  coming  to  my  dinner  party  ?”  said  Mrs.  Tem- 
pest. 

“ That  is  a pleasure  I cannot  deny  myself.” 

“ And  you  will  come  and  see  our  church  and  schools  ?”  said 
Mrs.  Scobel. 

“I  shall  be  more  than  pleased.  1 passed  your  pretty  little 
church,  I think,  on  my  way  here.  There  was  a tin  tea — a bell 
ringing — ” 

“ For  vespers,”  explained  Mrs.  Scobel.  ^ , 

The  exploration  of  the  house  took  a long  time,  conducted"  in 
this  somewhat  desultory  and  dawdling  manner;  but  the  closing 


VIXEN, 


89 


in  of  night  and  the  sound  of  the  dinner  gong  gp.ve  the  signal  for 
Captain  Carmichaers  departure. 

Sirs.  Tempest  would  have  liked  to  ask  him  to  dinner;  but  she 
had  an  idea  that  Violet  might  make  herself  objectionable,  and 
refrained  from  this  exercise  of  hospitality.  He  was  coming  to 
the  great  dinner.  He  would  see  her  dress  with  the  feather  trim- 
ming, which  was  really  prettier  than  Worth’s  masterpiece,  or, 
at  any  rate,  newer,  though  it  only  came  from  Madame  Theodore, 
of  Bruton  Street.  Sustained  by  this  reflection,  she  parted  with 
him  quite  cheerfully. 


CHAPTER  XHI. 

‘‘  HE  WAS  WORTHY  TO  BE  LOVED  FOR  A LIFETIME.” 

Conrad  Carmichael  had  come  to  the  New  Forest  with  his 
mind  resolved  upon  one  of  two  things.  He  meant  to  marry 
Violet  Tempest,  or  her  mother.  If  the  case  was  quite  hopeless 
with  the  daughter,  he  would  content  himself  with  winning  the 
lesser  prize;  and  though  Vanity  whispered  that  there  was  no 
woman  living  he  might  not  win  for  himself  if  he  chose  to  be 
sufflciently  patient  and  persevering,  instinct  told  him  that  Violet 
frankly  detested  him. 

“ After  all,”  argued  Worldly  Wisdom,  the  alternative  is  not 
to  be  despised.  The  widow  is  somewhat  rococo — an  old-fashioned 
jewel  kept  in  cotton-wool,  and  brought  out  on  occasions  to  shine 
with  a factitious  brilliancy — but  she  is  still  pretty.  She  is  ductile, 
amiable,  weak  to  a degree  that  promises  a husband  the  sovereign 
dominion.  Why  break  your  heart  for  this  fair  devil  of  a daugh- 
ter, who  looks  capable,  if  offended,  of  anything  in  the  way  of 
Tevenge,  from  a horsewhip  to  slow  poison  ? Are  a pair  of  brown 
eyes  and  a coronal  of  red-gold  hair  worth  all  this  wasted 
passion  ?” 

“But  the  daughter  is  the  greater  catch,”  urged  Ambition. 
“The  dowager’s  jointure  is  well  enough,  and  she  has  the  Abbey 
House  and  gardens  for  her  life,  but  Violet  will  be  mistress  of  the 
estate  when  she  comes  of  age.  As  Violet’s  husband,  your  posi- 
tion would  be  infinitely  better  than  it  could  be  as  her  step- 
father. Unhappily,  the  cantankerous  minx  has  taken  it  into 
her  head  to  dislike  you.” 

“Stay!”  interjected  the  bland  voice  of  Vanity;  “ may  not  this 
dislike  be  only  an  assumption,  a mask  for  some  deeper  feeling? 
There  are  girls  wdio  show  their  love  in  that  way.  Do  not  be  in 
a hurry  to  commit  yourself  to  the  mother  until  you  have  made 
yourself  quite  sure  about  the  daughter.” 

Mrs.  Tempest’s  dinner  party  was  a success.  It  introduced 
Captain  Carmichael  to  all  that  was  best  in  the  surrounding  so- 
ciety; for  although  in  Switzerland  he  had  seemed  vqry  familiar 
^with  the  best  people  in  the  Forest,  in  Hampshire  he  appeared  al- 
most a stranger  to  them.  It  was  generally  admitted,  however, 
that  the  captain  was  an  acquisition  and  a person  to  be  culti- 
vated. He  sang  a French  comic  song  almost  as  well  as  Monsieur 
De  Roseau,  recited  a short  American  poem,  which  nobody  had 


90 


VIXEN, 


ever  heard  before,  with  telling  force.  lie  was  at  home  upon 
every  subject,  from  orchids  to  steam-ploughs,  from  ordnance  to 
light  literature.  A man  who  sai  g so  well,  talked  so  well,  looked 
so  well,  and  behaved  so  well  could  not  be  otherwise  than  wel- 
come in  county  society.  Before  the  evening  was  over,  Captain 
Carmichael  had  been  offered  three  hunters  for  the  next  day's 
run,  and  had  been  asked  to  write  in  four  albums. 

Violet  did  not  honor  him  with  so  much  as  a look  after  the  one 
cold  recognition  of  his  first  appearance  in  the  drawing-room.  It 
was  a party  of  more  than  twenty  people,  and  she  was  able  to 
keep  out  of  his  way  without  obvious  avoidance  of  him.  He  was 
stung,  but  had  no  right  to  be  offended. 

He  took  Mrs.  Scobel  in  to  dinner,  and  Mrs.  Scobel  played  the 
accompaniment  of  his  song,  being  a clever  little  woman,  able  to 
turn  her  hand  to  anything.  He  would  have  preferred  to  be  told 
off  to  some  more  important  matron,  but  was  not  sorry  to  be 
taken  under  Mrs.  Scobel’s  wing.  She  would  be  useful  to  him, 
no  doubt,  in  the  future— a social  Iris  to  fetch  and  carry  for  him 
between  Beechdale  and  the  Abbey  House. 

Do  you  know  that  I am  quite  in  love  with  your  Forest?”  he 
said  to  Mrs.  Tempest,  standing  in  front  of  the  ottoman  wdiere 
that  lady  sat  with  t\vo  of  her  particular  friends — “ so  much  so 
that  I am  actually  in  treaty  for  Captain  Hawbuck’s  cottage,  and 
mean  to  stay  here  till  the  end  of  the  hunting.” 

Everybody  knew  Captain  Hawbuck’s  cottage — a verandaed 
box  of  a house  on  the  slope  of  the  hill  above  Beechdale. 

“ I’m  afraid  you’ll  find  the  drawing-room  chimney  smokes,” 
said  a lady  in  sea-green.  “ Poor  Mrs.  Hawbuck  was  a martyr  to 
that  chimney.” 

“ What  does  a bachelor  want  with  a drawing-room  ? If  there 
is  one  sitting-room  in  which  I can  burn  a good  fire,  I shall  be 
satisfied.  The  stable  is  in  very  fair  order.” 

“ The  Hawbucks  kept  a pony-carriage,”  assented  the  sea-green 
lady. 

“ If  Mrs.  Hawbuck  accepts  my  offer,  I shall  send  for  my  horses 
next  week,”  said  the  captain. 

Mrs.  Tempest  blushed.  Her  life  had  flowed  in  so  gentle  and 
placii  a current  that  the  freshness  of  her  soul  had  not  worn  off, 
and  at  nine-and-thirty  slie  was  able  to  blush.  There  was  some- 
thing so  significant  m Captain  Carmichael’s  desire  to  establish 
himself  at  Beechdale  that  she  could  not  help  feeling  fluttered  by 
the  fact.  It  might  be  on  Violet's  account,  of  course,  that  he 
came;  yet  Violet  and  he  had  never  got  on  veiy  well  together. 

“Poor  fellow!”  she  thought,  blandly;  “if  lie  for  a moment 
supposes  that  anything  would  tempt  me  to  marry  again,  he  is 
cgregiously  mistaken.” 

And  then  she  looked  round  the  lovely  old  room,  brightened  by 
a crowd  of  well-dressed  people  and  thought  that  next  to  heing 
Edward  Tempest’s  wife,  the  best  thing  in  life  was  to  be  Edward 
Tempest’s  widow. 

“Dear  Edward!”  she  mused;  “how  strange  that  we  should 
miss  him  so  little  to-night!’’ 

It  had  been  with  every  one  as  if  the  squire  had  never  lived 


VIXEN. 


91 


Politeness  exacted  this  ignoring  of  the  past,  no  doubt;  but  the 
thing  had  been  so  easily  done!  The  noble  presence,  the  jovial 
laugh,  the  friendly  smile,  were  gone,  and  no  one  seemed  con- 
scious of  the  void — no  one  but  Violet,  who  looked  round  the 
room  once,  when  conversation  was  liveliest,  with  a pale,  indig- 
nant face,  resenting  this  forgetfulness. 

“ I wish  papa’s  ghost  would  come  in  at  that  door  and  scare 
his  hollow-hearted  friends,”  she  said  to  herself;  and  she  felt  as 
if  it  would  hardly  have  been  a surprise  to  her  to  see  the  door 
open  slowly  and  that  familiar  figure  appear. 

“ Well,  Violet,”  Mrs.  Temple  said,  sweetly,  when  the  guests 
were  gone,  “ how  do  you  think  it  all  went  off  ?” 

“ It,”  of  course,  meant  the  dinner  party. 

‘‘  I suppose,  according  to  the  nature  of  such  things,  it  was  all 
right  and  proper,”  Vixen  answered,  coldly;  “but  I should  think 
it  must  have  been  intensely  painful  to  you,  mamma.” 

Mrs.  Tempest  sighed.  She  had  always  a large  collection  of 
sighs  in  stock,  suitable  to  every  occasion. 

“ I should  have  felt  it  much  worse  if  I had  sat  in  my  old 
place,”  she  said,  “ but  sitting  at  the  middle  of  the  table  instead 
of  at  the  end  made  it  less  painful.  And  I really  think  it’s  bet- 
ter style.  How  did  you  like  the  new  arrangement  of  the 
glasses?” 

“ I didn’t  notice  anything  new.” 

“ My  dear  Violet,  you  are  frightfully  unobservant.” 

“No,  I am  not,”  answered  Vixen," quickly.  “My  eyes  are 
keen  enough,  believe  me.” 

Mrs.  Tempest  felt  uncomfortable.  She  began  to  think  that, 
after  all,  it  might  be  a comfortable  thing  to  have  a companion — 
as  a fender  between  herself  and  Violet.  A perpetually  present 
Miss  Jones  or  Smith  would  ward  off  these  unpleasantnesses. 

There  are  occasions,  however,  on  which  a position  must  be 
faced  boldly — in  proverbial  phrase,  the  bull  must  be  taken  b;^ 
the  horns.  And  here,  Mrs.  Tempest  felt,  was  a bull  which  must 
be  so  encountered.  She  knew  that  her  poor  little  hands  were 
too  feeble  for  the  office;  but  she  told  herself  that  she  must  make 
the  heroic  attempt. 

“ Violet,  why  have  you  such  a rooted  dislike  to  Captain  Car- 
michael?” 

“ Why  is  my  hair  the  color  it  is,  mamma,  or  why  are  my  eyes 
brown  instead  of  blue?  If  you  could  answer  my  question,  I 
might  be  able  to  answer  yours.  Nature  made  me  what  I am, 
and  nature  has  planted  a hatred  of  Captain  Carmichael  in  my 
mind.” 

“ Do  you  not  think  it  wrong  to  hate  any  one — the  very  word 
hate  was  considered  unladylike  when  I was  a girl— without 
cause  ?” 

“I  have  cause  to  hate  him,  good  cause,  sufficient  cause.  I 
hate  all  self-seekers  and  adventurers.” 

“ You  have  no  right  to  call  him  one  or  the  other.” 

“ Have  I not  ? What  brings  him  here  but  the  pursuit  of  his 
cwn  interest  ? Why  does  he  plant  himself  at  our  door  as  if  he 


93 


VIXEN. 


were  come  to  besiege  a town  ? Do  you  mean  to  say,  mamma, 
that  you  can  be  so  blind  as  not  to  see  what  he  wants  ?” 

“ He  has  come  for  the  hunting.” 

‘‘  Yes,  but  not  to  hunt  our  foxes  or  our  stags.  He  wants  a rich 
wife,  mamma.  And  he  thinks  that  you  or  I will  be  foolish 
enough  to  marry  him.” 

“ There  would  be  nothing  unnatural  in  his  entertaining  some 
idea  of  that  kind  about  you,”  replied  Mrs.  Tempest,  with  a sud- 
den assertion  of  matronly  pride.  “ But  for  him  to  think  of  me 
in  that  light  would  be  too  absurd.  I must  be  some  years — per- 
haps four  or  five  years — his  senior,  to  begin  with.” 

“ Oh,  he  would  forgive  you  that;  he  would  not  mind  that.” 

‘‘  And  he  ought  to  know  that  I should  never  dream  of  marry- 
ing again.” 

He  ought,  if  he  had  any  idea  of  what  is  right  and  noble  in  a 
woman,”  answered  Vixen.  “But  he  has  not.  He  has  no  ideas 
that  do  not  begin  and  end  in  himself  and  his  own  advantage. 
He  sees  you  herein  a handsome  house,  a good  income,  and  he 
thinks  that  he  can  persuade  you  to  marry  him.” 

“Violet,  you  must  know  that  I shall  never  marry.” 

“ I hope  I do  know  it.  But  the  world  ought  to  know  it  too. 
People  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  whisper  and  smile  and  look 
significant,  as  I saw  some  of  them  do  to-night  when  Captain 
Carmichael  was  hanging  over  your  chair.  You  ought  not  to  en- 
courage him,  mamma.  It  is  a treason  against  my  father  to  have 
that  man  here.” 

Here  was  a bull  tliat  required  prompt  and  severe  handling, 
but  Mrs.  Tempest  felt  her  powers  inadequate  to  the  elTort. 

“ I am  surprised  at  you,  Violet!”  she  exclaimed;  “as  if  I did 
not  know  as  well  as  you  what  is  due  to  my  poor  Edward — as  if 
I should  do  anything  to  compromise  my  own  dignity.  Is  it  to 
encourage  a man  to  ask  him  to  a dinner  party  when  he  happens 
to  be  visiting  in  the  neighborhood?  Can  I forbid  Captain  Car- 
michael  to  take  the  Hawbucks’  cottage  T’ 

“ No;  you  have  gone  too  far  already.  You  gave  him  too  much 
encouragement  in  Switzerland  and  at  Brighton.  He  has  attach- 
ed himself  to  us  like  a limpet  to  a rock.  You  will  not  easily  get 
rid  of  him,  unless  you  let  1dm  see  that  you  understand  and  de- 
spise him,” 

“I  see  nothing  despicable  in  him,  and  I am  not  going  to  insult 
him  at  your  bidding,”  answered  the  widow,  tremulous  with 
anger.  “ I do  not  believe  Inm  to  be  a schemer  or  an  adventurer. 
He  is  a gentleman  by  birth,  education,  profession.  It  is  a su- 
preme insolence  on  your  part  to  speak  of  him  as  you  do.  V/hat 
can  you  know  of  the  world  ? How  can  you  judge  and  measure 
a man  like  Captain  Carmichael — a girl  like  you,  hardly  out  of 
the  nursery  ? It  is  too  absurd.  And  understand  at  once  and 
forever,  Violet,  that  I will  not  be  hectored  or  lectured  in  this 
manner,  that  I will  not  be  dictated  to,  or  taught  what  is  good 
taste  in  my  own  house.  This  is  to  be  my  own  house,  you  know, 
as  long  as  I live.” 

“Yes,  unless  you  give  it  a new  master,’  said  Violet,  gravely. 
**  Forgive  me  if  I have  been  too  vehement,  mamma.  It  is  my 


VIXEN. 


love  that  is  bold.  Whom  have  I in  this  world  to  love  now  ex- 
cept you?  And  when  I see  you  in  danger — when  I see  the  soft- 
ness of  your  nature Dear  mother,  there  are  some  instincts 

that  are  stronger  than  reason.  There  are  some  antipathies 
which  are  implanted  in  us  for  warnings.  Remember  what  a 
happy  life  you  led  with  mv  dear  father — his  goodness,  his  over- 
flowing generosity,  his  noble  heart.  There  is  no  man  worthy  to 
succeed  him,  to  live  in  his  house.  Dear  mother,  for  pity’s 
sake ” 

She  was  kneeling  at  her  mother’s  feet,  clinging  to  her  hands, 
her  voice  half  choked  with  sobs.  Mrs.  Tempest  began  to  cry,  too. 

“My  dearest  Violet,  how  can  you  be  so  foolish?  My  love, 
don’t  cry.  I tell  you  that  I shall  never  marry  again — never. 
Not  if  I were  asked  to  become  a countess.  My  heart  is  true  to 
your  dear  father;  it  always  will  be.  I am  almost  sorry  that  I 
consented  to  these  scarlet  bows  on  my  dress,  but  the  feather 
trimming  looked  so  heavy  without  them,  and  Theodore’s  eye  for 
color  is  perfect.  My  dear  child,  be  assured  I shall  carry  his 
image  with  me  to  my  ^ave.” 

“Dear  mother,  that  is  all  I ask.  Be  as  happy  as  you  can,  but 
be  true  to  him.  He  was  worthy  to  be  loved  for  a lifetime;  not 
to  be  put  off  with  half  a life,  half  a heart.” 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

LADY  SOUTHMINSTER’S  BALL. 

Captain  Carmichael  closed  with  IMrs.  Hawbuck  for  the  pretty 
little  veranda-surrounded  cottage  on  the  slope  of  the  hill  above 
Beechdale,  Captain  Hawbuck,  a retired  naval  man,  to  whom 
the  place  had  been  very  dear,  was  m his  grave,  and  his  v/ife  was 
anxious  to  try  if  she  and  her  hungry  children  could  not  live  on 
less  money  in  Belgium  than  they  could  in  England.  The  good 
old  post-captain  had  improved  and  beautified  the  place  from  a 
farm  laborer’s  cottage  into  a habitation  which  was  the  quin- 
tessence of  picturesque  inconvenience.  Ceilings  which  you  could 
touch  with  your  hand;  funny  little  fire-places  in  angles  of  tlie 
rooms;  a corkscrew  staircase,  which  a stranger  ascended  or 
descended  at  peril  of  life  or  limb;  no  kitchen  worth  mentioning, 
and  stuffy  little  bedrooms  under  the  thatch.  Seen  from  the  out- 
side, the  cottage  was  charming;  and  if  the  captain  and  his  family 
could  only  have  lived  over  the  way,  and  looked  at  it,  they 
would  have  had  full  value  for  the  money  invested  in  its  improve- 
ment. Small  as  the  rooms  were,  and  despite  that  dark  slander 
which  hung  over  the  chimneys,  Captain  Carmichael  declared 
that  the  cottage  would  suit  hini  admirably. 

“I  like  the  situation,”  he  said,  discussing  his  bargain  in  the 
coffee-room  at  the  Crown,  Lynd hurst. 

“I  should  rather  think  you  did!”  cried  Mr.  Bell,  the  local  sur- 
geon. “ Suits  you  down  to  the  ground,  doesn’t  it?” 

Whereby  it  will  be  seen  that  there  was  already  a 'certain 
opinion  in  the  neighborhood  as  to  the  captain’s  motive  for 
planting  himself  at  Beechdale,  so  acute  is  a quiet  little  commu- 
nity of  this  kind  in  divining  the  intentions  of  a stranger. 


04 


VIXEK 


Captain  Carmichael  took  up  his  quarters  at  Beechdale  Cottage 
in  less  than  a week  after  Mrs.  Tempest’s  dinner  party.  He  seilt 
for  bis  horses,  and  began  the  business  of  hunting  in  real  earnest. 
His  two  hunters  were  unanimously  x)ronounced  screws;  but  it  is 
astonishing  how  well  a good  rider  can  get  across  country  on  a 
horse  which  other  people  call  a screw.  Nobody  could  deny 
Captain  Carmichael’s  merits  as  a horseman.  His  costume  and 
appointments  had  all  the  finish  of  Melton-Mo  wbray,  and  be  was 
always  in  the  first  flight. 

Before  he  had  occupied  Captain  Hawbuck’s  cottage  a month, 
the  new-comer  had  made  friends  for  himself  in  all  directions. 
He  was  much  at  home  in  the  Forest  as  if  ho  had  been  native  and 
to  the  manner  born.  His  straight  riding,  his  good  looks,  and 
agreeable  manners  won  him  everybody’s  approval.  There  was 
nothing  dissipated  or  Bohemian  about  him.  His  clothes  never 
smelled  of  stale  tobacco.  He  was  as  punctual  at  church  every 
Sunday  morning  as  if  he  had  been  a family  man,  bound  to  set  a 
good  example.  He  subscribed  liberally  to  the  hounds,  and  was 
always  ready  with  those  stray  florins  and  half  crowns  by  which 
a man  purchases  a clieap  popularity  among  the  horse-holding 
and  ragged-follower  class. 

Having  distinctly  asserted  her  intention  of  remaining  a widow 
to  Violet,  Mrs.  Tempest  allowed  herself  the  privilege  of  being  civil 
to  Captain  Carmichael.  He  dropped  in  at  afternoon  tea  at  least 
twice  a week;  he  dined  at  the  Abbey  House  whenever  the  Sco- 
bels  or  any  other  intimate  friends  were  there  in  a quiet  way.” 
He  generally  escorted  Mrs.  Tempest  and  her  daughter  from 
church  on  Sunday  morning.  Violet  persistently  loitering  twenty 
yards  or  so  behind  them  on  the  narrow  woodland  path  that  led 
from  Beechdale  to  the  Abbey  House. 

After  walking  home  from  church  with  Mrs.  Tempest,  it  was 
only  natural  that  the  captain  should  stop  to  luncheon,  and  after 
luncheon — the  Sabbath  'afternoon  being  in  a manner,  a legiti- 
mate occasion  for  dawdling — it  was  natural  enough  for  him  to 
linger,  looking  at  the  gardens  and  greenhouses,  or  talking  beside 
the  drawing-room  fire,  till  the  appearance  of  the  spitfire  Queen 
Anne  tea-kettle  and  Mrs.  Tempest’s  infusion  of  orange  pekoe. 

Sometimes  the  Scobels  were  present  at  these  Sunday  luncheons, 
sometimes  not.  Violet  was  with  her  mother,  of  course,  on  these 
occasions,  but,  while  bodily  present,  she  contrived  to  maintain 
an  attitude  of  aloofness  which  would  have  driven  a less  resolute 
man  than  Conrad  Carmichael  to  absent  himself.  A man  more 
sensitive  to  the  opinions  of  others  could  hardly  have  existed  in 
such  an  atmosphere  of  dislike;  but  Captain  Carmichael  meant 
to  live  down  Miss  Tempest’s  aversion  or,  to  give  her  double  cause 
for  hating  him. 

“ Why  have  you  given  up  hunting.  Miss  Tempest  ?*’  he  asked, 
one  Sunday  afternoon,  when  they  had  gone  the  round  of  the 
stables,  and  Arion  had  been  fondled  and  admired — a horse  as 
gentle  as  a dog  in  his  stable,  as  fiery  as  a wild-cat  out  of  it. 

‘‘Because  I have  no  one  I care  to  hunt  with,  now  papa  hcw: 
gone.” 

**  But  here  in  the  Forest,  where  everybody  knows  you,  wheiv 


VIXEN. 


95 


you  might  have  as  many  fathers  as  the  Daughter  of  the  Regi- 
ment  ” 

“Yes,  I have  many  kind  friends;  but  there  is  not  one  who 
could  fill  my  father’s  place  for  an  hour.” 

“ It  is  a pity,”  said  the  captain,  sympathetically.  “ You  were 
so  fond  of  hunting,  were  you  not  ?” 

“ Passionately.” 

“ Then  it  is  a shame  you  should  forego  the  pleasure.  And  you 
must  find  it  very  dull,  t should  think,  riding  alone  in  the  forest.” 

“ Alone!  I have  my  horse.” 

“ Surely  he  does  not  count  as  a companion.” 

“ Indeed  he  does.  I wish  for  no  better  company  than  Arion, 
now  papa  is  gone.” 

“Violet  is  so  eccentric!”  Mrs.  Tempest  murmured,  gently. 

Captain  Carmichael  had  taken  Mrs.  Hawbuck’s  cottage  till  the 
1st  of  May.  The  end  of  April  would  see  the  last  of  the  hunting, 
so  this  arrangement  seemed  natural  enough.  He  liunteci  in  good 
earnest.  There  was  no  pretense  about  him.  It  was  only  the 
extra  knowing  ones,  the  little  knot  of  choice  spirits  at  the  Crown, 
who  saw  some  deeper  motive  than  a mere  love  of  sport  for  his 
residence  at  Beechdah\  These  advanced  minds  had  contrived 
to  find  out  all  about  Captain  Carmichael  by  this  time — tlie  date 
of  his  selling  out,  his  osJjensible  and  hidden  reasons  for  leaving 
the  army,  the  amount  of  his  debts,  and  the  general  complexion 
of  his  character.  There  was  not  much  to  be  advanced  against 
him,  no  dark  stories,  only  a leading  notion  that  he  was  a man 
who  wanted  to  improve  his  fortunes,  and  would  not  be  over- 
scrupulous  as  to  til e means.  But  as  your  overscrupulous  man  is 
one  in  a thousand,  this  was  ranking  Captain  Carmichael  with 
the  majority. 

The  winter  was  over;  there  were  primroses  peeping  out  of  the 
moss  and  brambles,  and  a shy  little  violet  shining  like  a blue  eye 
here  and  there.  The  flaunting  daffodils  were  yellow  in  every 
glade,  and  the  gummy  chestnut  buds  were  beginning  to  swell. 
It  was  mid-March,  and  as  yet  there  had  been  no  announcement 
of  home-coming  from  Roderick  Yavvdrey  or  the  Dovedales.  The 
duke  was  said  to  have  taken  a fancy  to  the  Roman  style  of  fox- 
hunting; Lady  Mabel  was  studying  art;  the  duchess  was  sus- 
pected of  a leaning  to  Romanism:  and  Roderick  was  dancing  at- 
tendance upon  the  family  generally. 

“ Why  should  he  not  stay  there  with  them?”  said  Mr.  Scobel, 
sipping  his  pekoe  in  a comfortable  little  circle  of  gossipers 
round  Mrs.  Tempest’s  gypsy  table.  “He  has  very  little  else  to 
do  with  his  life.  He  is  a,  young  man  utterly  without  views  or 
purpose.  He  has  no  mission.  I have  sounded  him,  and  found 
him  full  of  a shallow  good  nature.  He  would  build  a church  if 
people  asked  him,  and  hardly  know,  when  it  was  finished, 
whether  he  meant  it  for  Jews  or  Gentiles.” 

Vixen  sat  in  her  corner  and  said  nothing.  It  amused  her 
rather — with  a half-bitter  sense  of  amusement — to  hear  them 
talk  about  Roderick.  He  had  quite  gone  out  of  her  life.  It 
interested  her  to  know  what  people  thought  of  him  in  his  new 
world. 


vixEm 


If  the  dulie  doesn’t  briag  them  all  borne  very  soon,  the 
duchess  will  go  over,”  said  Mrs.  Scobeb  with  conviction.  She 
has  been  drifting  that  way  for  ever  so  long.  Ignatius  isn’t  high 
enough  for  her.” 

The  Reverend  Ignatius  sighed.  He  hardly  saw  his  way  to 
ascending  any  higher. 

It  was  in  tliis  month  of  March  that  an  event  impended,  which 
caused  a considerable  flutter  among  the  dancing  population  of 
the  Forest.  Lord  Southminster’s  eldest  daughter,  Lady  Almira 
Ringwood,  wns  to  marry  Sir  Ponto  Jones,  the  rich  iron-master 
— an  alliance  of  ancient  aristocracy  and  modern  wnalth  which 
was  considered  one  of  the  grandest  achievements  of  the  age,  like 
the  discovery  of  steam  or  the  electric  telegraph;  and  after  the 
marriage,  \rhich  was  to  be  quietly  performed  in  the  presence  of 
about  a hundred  and  fifty  blood -relations,  there  was  to  be  a ball, 
to  wdiich  all  the  county  families  were  bidden,  with  very  little 
more  distinction  or  favoritism  than  in  the  good  old  fairy-tale 
times,  when  the  king’s  herald  went  through  the  streets  of 
the  city  to  invite  everybody,  and  only  some  stray  Cinderella, 
cleaning  boots  and  knives  in  a back  kitchen,  found  herself  unin- 
tentionally excluded.  Lady  Southminster  drew  the  line  at  county 
families  naturally,  but  her  kindly  feelings  allowed  a wide  mar- 
gin for  parsons,  doctors  and  military  men;  and  among  these  last 
Captain  Carmichael  received  a card. 

Mrs.  Scobel  declared  that  this  ball  w^ould  be  a grand  thing  for 
Violet.  “You  have  never  properly  come  out,  you  know,  dear,” 
she  said;  “but  at  Southminster  you’ll  be  seen  by  ever}- body,  and, 
as  I dare  say.  Lady  Ellangowan  will  take  you  under  her  wing, 
you’ll  be  seen  to  the  best  advantge.” 

“Do  you  think  Lady  Ellangowan’s  wing  wull  make  any  dif- 
ference— in  me  ?”  inquired  Vixen, 

“It  will  make  a great  deal  of  difference  in  the  Southminster 
set,”  replied  Mrs.  Scobel,  who  considered  herself  an  authority 
upon  all  social  matters. 

She  was  a busy,  good-natured  little  woman,  the  chosen  con- 
fidante of  all  her  female  friends.  People  were  always  appealing 
to  her  on  small  social  questions,  what  they  ought  to  do  or  to 
wear  on  such  an  occasion.  She  knew  the  wardrobes  of  her 
friends  as  well  as  she  knew  her  own.  “I  suppose  youTl  wear 
that  lovely  pink,”  she  would  say,  when  discussing  an  impending 
dinner  party.  She  gave  judicious  assistance  in  the  composition 
of  a menu.  “ My  love,  everyone  has  phesants  at  this  time  of 
year.  Ask  your  poulterer  to  send  you  guinea-fowls;  they  are 
more  distinguees,”  she  would  suggest.  Or:  “If  you  have  des- 
sert ices,  let  me  recommend  you  coffee-cream.  We  had  it  last 
week  at  Ellangowan  Park.” 

Vixen  made  no  objection  to  the  Southminster  ball.  She  was 
young  and  fond  of  waltzing.  Whirling  easily  round  to  the 
swing  of  sojne  German  melody,  in  a great  room  garlanded  with 
flowers,  was  a temporary  cessation  of  all  eartlily  care,  which  w^as 
m no  wise  unpleasant  to  her.  She  had  enjoyed  her  waltzes  even 
at  that  charity  ball  at  the  Pavihon  to  which  she  had  gone  so  un- 
willingly. 


VIXEN. 


97 


The  March  night  was  fine,  but  blustery,  when  Mrs.  Tempest 
and  her  daughter  started  for  the  Southminster  ball.  The  stars 
were  shining  in  a windy  sky,  the  tall  forest  trees  were  tossing 
their  heads,  the  brambles  were  shivering,  and  a shrill  shriek 
came  up  out  of  the  woodland  every  now  and  then,  like  a human 
cry  for  help. 

Mrs  Tempest  had  offered  to  take  Mrs.  Scobel  and  Captain  Car- 
michael in  her  roomy  candage.  Mr.  Scobel  was  not  going  to 
the  ball;  all  such  entertainments  were  an  abhorrence  to  him  ; 
but  this  particular  ball,  being  given  in  Lent,  was  more  especially 
abhorrent. 

‘‘I  shouldn’t  think  of  going  for  my  own  amusement,”  Mrs. 
Scobel  told  her  husband,  “ but  I want  to  see  Violet  Tempest  at 
her  first  local  ball.  I want  to  see  the  impression  she  makes.  I 
believe  she  will  be  the  belle  of  the  ball.” 

“ That  would  mean  the  belle  of  South  Hants,”  said  the  parson. 

She  has  a beautiful  face  for  a painted  window — there  is  such  a 
glow  of  color.” 

“ She  is  absolutely  lovely,  when  she  likes,”  replied  his  wife; 
“ but  she  has  a curious  temper;  and  there  is  something  very  re- 
pellent about  her  when  she  does  not  like  people.  Strange,  is  it 
not,  that  she  should  not  like  Captain  Carmichael  ?” 

“ She  would  be  a very  noble  girl  under  more  spiritual  influ- 
ences,” sighed  the  Reverend  Ignatius.  “Her  present  surround- 
ings are  appallingly  earthly.  Horses,  dogs,  a table  loaded  with 
meat  in  Lent  and  Advent,  a total  ignoring  of  daily  matins  and 
even-song.  It  is  sad  to  see  those  we  like  treading  the  broad  path 
so  blindly.  I feel  sorry,  Juliana,  that  you  should  go  to  this 
ball.”  " 

“ It  is  only  on  Violet’s  account,”  repeated  Mrs.  Scobel.  “ Mrs. 
Tempest  will  be  thinking  of  nothing  but  her  dress;  there  will  be 
nobody  interested  in  that  poor  girl.” 

Urged  thus  on  purely  benevolent  grounds,  Mr.  Scobel  could 
not  wdthhold  his  consent,  more  especially  as  he  had  acquired  the 
habit  of  letting  his  wife  do  what  she  liked  on  most  occasions — a 
marital  custom  not  easily  broken  through.  So  Mrs.  Scobel,  who 
was  an  economical  little  woman,  “ did  up”  her  silver-gray  silk 
dinner  dress  wdth  ten  shillings  worth  of  black  tulle  and  pink 
rose-buds,  and  felt  she  had  made  a success  that  Madame  Elise 
might  have  approved.  Her  faith  in  the  silver-gray  and  the  rose- 
buds was  just  a little  shaken  by  her  first  view  of  Mrs.  Tempest 
and  Violet;  the  widow  in  black  velvet,  rose-point,  and  scarlet — 
Spanish  as  a portrait  by  Velasquez;  Violet  in  black  and  gold, 
with  white  camellas  in  her  hair. 

The  drive  was  a long  one,  well  over  ten  miles,  along  one  of 
those  splendid  straight  roads  which  distinguish  the  New'  Forest. 
Mrs.  Tempest  and  Mrs.  Scobel  were  in  high  spirits,  and  prattled 
agreeably  all  the  w^ay,  only  giving  Captain  Carmichael  time  to 
get  a word  in  edgeways  now  and  then.  Violet  looked  out  of 
the  window  and  held  her  peace.  There  was  always  a charm  for 
her  in  that  dark,  silent  forest,  those  waving  branches  and  flit- 
ting clouds,  stars  gleaming  like  lights  on  a stormy  sea.  She  w'as 
not  much  elated  at  the  idea  of  the  baU,  and  “ that  small,  small, 


98 


vtxe:^l 


imperceptibly  email  tnlli  ^ of  her  mother '3  and  Mrs,  ycobel’s  was 
beyond  measure  wearisome  to  her, 

“ I hope  we  shrill  get  there  after  the  Elian  go  wans,”  said  Mrs. 
Scobel,  when  they  had  driven  tij rough  the  little  town  of  Ring- 
wood,  and  were  entering  a land  of  level  pastures  and  fertilizing 
streams,  which  seemed  wonderfully  tame  after  the  undulating 
forest;  ‘‘  it  would  be  so  much  nicer  for  Violet  to  be  in  the  Ellan- 
gowan  set  from  the  firat.” 

‘ ‘ I beg  to  state  that  Miss  Tempest  has  promised  me  the  first 
waltz,”  said  Captain  Carmichael.  “ I am  not  going  to  be  ousted 
by  any  offshoot  of  nobility  in  Lady  Ellangowan’s  set. 

“ Oil,  of  course,  if  Violet  has  promised What  a lot  of 

carriages!  I am  afraid  there  will  be  a block  presently.” 

There  w^as  every  prospect  of  such  a calamity.  A confiuence  of 
vehicles  had  poured  into  a narrow  lane  bounded  on  one  side  by 
a treacherous  water-meadow,  on  the  other  by  a garden  wall. 
Th(‘y  all  came  to  a stand -still,  as  Mrs.  Scobel  had  prophesied. 
For  a quarter  of  an  hour  there  was  no  progress  whatever,  and 
a good  deal  of  recrimination  among  coachmen,  and  then  the  rest 
of  the  journey  had  to  be  done  at  a walking  pace. 

The  reward  was  worth  the  labor,  when  at  the  end  of  a long 
winding  drive  the  carriage  drew  up  before  the  Italian  front  of 
Southminster  House — a white  marble  portico,  long  rows  of  tall 
windows  brilliantly  lighted,  a vista  of  flowers  and  statues,  and 
lamps,  and  pictures  and  velvet  hangings  seen  through  the  open 
doorway. 

“ Oh,  it  is  beautiful!”  crie^c  Violet,  fresh  as  a school-girl  in  this 
new^  delight.  ‘‘  First  the  dark  forest,  and  then  a house  like  this; 
it  is  like  fairy-land.” 

‘‘  And  you  are  to  be  the  queen  of  it — my  queen,”  said  Conrad 
Carmichael,  in  a low  voice.  “ I am  to  have  the  first  waltz,  re- 
member that.  If  the  Prince  of  Wales  were  mj^  rival  I would 
not  give  way.” 

He  detained  her  hand  in  his  as  she  alighted  from  the  car- 
riage. She  snatched  it  from  him  angrily. 

“ I have  a good  mind  not  to  dance  at  all,”  she  said. 

“Why  not  ?” 

“It  is  paying  too  dearly  for  the  pleasure,  to  be  obliged  to 
dance  with  you.” 

“ In  what  school  did  you  learn  politeness,  Miss  Tempest?” 

“ If  politeness  means  civility  to  people  I despise,  I have  never 
learned  it,”  answered  Vixen. 

There  was  no  time  for  further  skirmishing.  He  had  taken  her 
cloak  from  lier,  and  handed  it  to  the  attendant  nymph,  and  re- 
ceived a ticket;  and  now  they  were  drifting  into  the  tea-room, 
where  a row  of  ministering  footmen  were  looking  at  the  guests 
across  a barricade  of  urns  and  tea-pots,  with  countenances  that 
seemed  to  say,  “If  you  want  anything,  you  must  ask  for  it. 
We  are  here;  under  protest,  and  we  very  mucli  wonder  how  our 
people  could  ever  have  invited  such  rabble!” 

“ I always  feel  small  in  a tea-room  when  there  are  only  men 
in  attendance,”  whispered  Mr^  Scobel;  “ they  are  so  haughty. 


VIXEN. 


99 


I would  soouer  ask  Gladstoue  or  Disraeli  to  pour  me  out  a cup 
of  tea  than  one  of  those  supercilious  creatures.” 

Lady  Southmioster  was  stationed  in  the  Teniers  room — a small 
apartment  at  the  beginning  or  the  suite  which  ended  in  the  pict- 
ure-gallery or  ball-room.  She  was  what  Joe  Gargery  called  a 
“ fine  figure  of  a woman,”  in  ruby  velvet  and  diamonds,  and  re- 
ceived her  guests  with  an  indiscriminating  cordiality  which  went 
far  to  heal  the  gaping  wounds  of  county  politics. 

The  Eilangowans  had  arrived,  and  Lady  Ellangowan,  who 
was  full  of  good  nature,  was  quite  ready  to  take  Violet  under 
her  wing  when  Mrs.  Scobel  suggested  that  operation. 

“I  can  find  her  any  number  of  partners,”  she  said.  Oh, 
there  she  goes — off  already — with  Captain  Carmichael.” 

The  captain  had  lost  no  time  in  exacting  his  waltz.  It  was 
the  third  on  the  programme,  and  the  band  were  beginning  to 
warm  to  their  work.  They  were  playing  a waltz  by  Offenbach — 
“Les  Traineaux” — with  an  accompaniment  of  jingling  sleigh- 
b(?lls:  music  that  had  an  almost  maddening  effect  on  spirits  al- 
ready exhilarated. 

The  long  lofty  picture-gallery  made  a magnificent  ball-room — 
a polished  floor  of  dark  wood,  a narrow  line  of  light  under  the 
projecting  cornice,  the  famous  Paul  Veronese,  the  world-re- 
nowned Rubens,  the  adorable  Titian;  ideal  beauty  looking  down 
with  art’s  eternal  tranquillity  upon  the  whisk  and  whirl  ot  actual 
life;  here  a calm  Madonna  contemplating  with  deep  unfathom- 
able eyes  these  brief  ephemera  of  a night;  there  Judith  with  a 
white  muscular  arm  holding  the  tyrant’s  head  aloft  above  the 
dancers;  yonder  Piiihp  of  Spain  frowning  on  this  Lenten  fes- 
tival. 

Violet  and  Captain  Carmichael  waltzed  in  a stern  silence. 
She  was  vexed  with  herself  for  her  loss  of  temper  just  now.  In 
his  breast  there  was  a deeper  anger.  When  would  his  day  come? 
he  asked  lumself.  When  would  he  be  able  to  bow  this  proud 
head,  to  bend  this  stubborn  will?  It  must  be  soon:  he  was 
tired  of  playing  his  submissive  part,  tired  of  holding  his  cards 
hidden. 

They  held  on  to  the  end  of  the  waltz — ^the  last  clash  of  the 
sleigh-bells. 

Who’s  that  girl  in  black  and  gold?”  asked  a guardsman  of 
Lady  Ellangowan;  “those  two  are  the  best  dancers  in  the  room 
— it’s  a thousand  to  nothing  on  them.” 

That  final  clash  of  the  bells  brought  the  captain  and  his  part- 
ner to  anchor  at  the  end  of  the  gallery,  which  opened  through 
an  archway  into  a semicircular  palm-house.  In  the  middle  of 
this  archway,  looking  at  the  dancers,  stood  a figure  at  sight  of 
which  Violet  Tempest’s  heart  gave  a great  leap,  and  then  stood 
still. 

It  was  Roderick  Vawdrey.  He  was  standing  alone,  listlessly 
contemplating  the  ball-room,  with  much  less  life  and  expression 
in  his  face  than  there  was  in  the  pictured  faces  on  the  walls. 

“ That  was  a very  nice  waltz — thanks,”  said  Vixen,  giving  the 
captain  a little  courtesy. 

“ Shall  1 take  you  back  to  Mrs.  Tempest?” 


100 


VIXEN. 


Roderick  had  seen  her  by  this  time,  and  was  coming  toward 
her  with  a singularly  grave  and  distant  countenance,  she  thought; 
not  at  all  the  Rorie'of  old  times.  But  of  course  that  was  over 
and  done  with.  She  must  never  call  him  Rorie  any  more,  not 
even  in  her  own  thoughts.  A sharp,  sudden  memory  thrilled 
her,  as  they  stood  face  to  face  in  that  brilliant  gallery — the 
memory  of  their  last  meeting  in  the  darkened  room  on  the  daj^ 
of  her  father’s  funeral. 

“How  do  you  do?”  said  Roderick,  with  a gush  of  originalityo 
“Your  mamma  is  here,  I suppose?” 

“ Haven’t  you  seen  her?” 

“ No;  we’ve  only  just  come.” 

“ We,”  no  doubt,  meant  the  Dovedale  party,  of  which  Mr.  Vaw- 
dry  was  henceforth  a part. 

“ I did  not  know  you  were  to  be  here,  or  even  that  you  were 
in  England.” 

“We  only  came  home  yesterday,  or  I should  have  called  at 
the  Abbey  House.  We  have  been  coming  home,  or  talking 
about  it,  for  the  last  three  weeks.  A few  days  ago  the  duchess 
took  it  into  her  head  that  she  ought  to  be  at  Lady  Almira’s 
wedding — there’s  some  kind  of  relationship,  you  know,  between 
the  Ashbournes  and  the  Southminsters — so  we  put  on  a spurt, 
and  here  we  are.” 

“ I am  very  glad,”  said  Vixen,  not  knowing  very  well  what  to 
say;  and  then  seeing  Captain  Carmichael  standing  stiffly  at  her 
side,  with  an  agrieved  expression  of  countenance,  she  faltered; 
“ 1 beg  your  pardon;  I don’t  think  you  have  ever  met  Mr.  Vaw- 
drey.  Captain  Carmichael — Mr.  Vawdrey.” 

Both  gentlemen  acknowledged  the  introduction  with  the  stiffl 
est  and  chilliest  of  bov/s;  and  then  the  captain  offered  Violet  his 
arm,  and  she,  having  no  excuse  for  refusingit,  submitted  quietly 
to  be  taken  away  from  her  old  friend.  Roderick  made  no  at- 
tempt to  detain  her. 

The  change  in  him  could  hardly  have  been  more  marked, 
Vixen  thought.  Yes,  the  old  Rorie — playfellow,  scape-goat, 
friend  of  the  dear  old  childish  days — was  verily  dead  and  gone. 

“ Shall  we  go  and  look  at  the  presents  ?”  asked  Captain  Car* 
michael. 

“ What  presents?” 

“Lady  Almira’s  wedding  presents.  They  are  all  laid  out  in 
the  library.  I hear  they  are  very  splendid.  Everybody  is  crowd- 
ing to  see  them.” 

“ I dare  say  mamma  would  like  to  go,  and  Mrs.  Scobel,”  sug- 
gested Vixen. 

“ Then  we  will  all  go  together.” 

They  found  the  tyvo  matrons  side  by  side  on  a settee,  under  a 
lovely  girlish  head  by  Greuze.  They  were  both  delighted  at  the 
idea  of  seeing  the  presents.  It  was  something  to  do.  Mrs.  Teni- 
pest  had  made  up  her  mind  to  abjure  even  square  dances  this 
evening.  There  was  something  incongruous  in  widowhood  and 
the  Lancers,  especially  in  one’s  own  neighborhood. 


VIXENo 


101 


CHAPTER  XV. 

EORIE  ASKS  A QUESTION. 

The  library  was  one  of  the  finest  rooms  at  Sonthminster.  It 
was  not  like  the  library  at  Althorpe — a collection  for  a nation  to 
be  proud  of.  Tiiere  was  no  priceless  Decameron,  no  Caxton 
Bible,  no  inestimable  Book  of  Hours,  or  early  Venetian  Virgil; 
but  as  a library  of  reference,  a library  for  ail  purposes  of  culture 
or  enjoyment,  it  left  nothing  to  be  desired.  It  was  a spacious 
and  lofty  room,  lined  frcUi  floor  to  ceiling  with  exquisitely 
bound  books;  for,  if  not  a collector  of  rare  editions,  Lord  South- 
minster  was  at  least  a connoisseur  of  bindings.  Creamy  Yellum 
flowered  with  gold,  antique  brown  calf,  and  Russia  in  every 
shade  of  crimson  and  brown,  gave  brightness  to  the  shelves, 
while  the  somber  darkness  of  carved  oak  made  a background  for 
this  variety  of  color. 

Not  a mortal  in  the  crowded  library  this  evening  thought  of 
looking  at  the  books.  The  room  had  been  transformed  into  a 
bazar.  Two  long  tables  were  loaded  with  the  wedding  gifts 
which  rejoicing  friends  and  aspiring  acquaintances  had  lavished 
uxx)n  Lady  Almira.  Each  gift  was  labeled  with  the  name  of  the 
giver;  the  exhibition  was  full  of  interest.  Most  of  the  people 
looking  at  the  show  had  made  their  offering,  and  were  anxious 
to  see  if  their  own  particular  contribution  appeared  to  advantage. 

Here  Mrs.  Scobel  was  in  her  element.  She  explained  every- 
thing, expatiated  upon  the  beauty  and  usefulness  of  everything. 
If  she  had  assisted  at  the  purchase  of  all  these  gifts,  or  had  act- 
ually chosen  them,  she  could  not  have  been  more  familiar  with 
their  uses  and  merits. 

“ You  must  look  at  the  silver  candelabra  presented  by  Sir  Pon- 
to’s  work-people,  so  much  more  sensible  than  a bracelet.  I don’t 
think  GaiTard — yes,  it  is  Garrard— ever  did  anything  better. 
So  sweetly  mythological;  a goat  and  a dear  little  chubby  boy, 
and  ever  so  many  savage-looking  persons  with  cymbals.” 

“ The  education  of  Jupiter,”  suggested  Captain  Carmichael. 

“ Of  course.  The  savage  persons  must  be  teacliing  him  music. 
Have  you  seen  this  liqueur  cabinet,  dear  Mrs.  Tempest  ? The 
most  exquisite  thing,  from  the  servants  at  Southminster.  Could 
anything  be  nicer  ?”  * 

‘‘Looks  rather  like  a suggestion  that  Ladjr  Almira  may  be 
given  to  Curacoa  on  the  quiet,”  said  the  captain. 

“And  this  lovely,  lovely  screen  in  crewels,  by  the  Ladies 
Ringwood,  after  a picture  by  Ahna  Tadema,”  continued  Mrs. 
Scotch  “Was  there  ever  anything  so  perfect?  And  to  think 
that  our  poor  mothers  worked  staring  roses  and  gigantic  lilies 
in  Berlin  wool  and  glass  beads,  and  imagined  themselves 
artistic  ?” 

The  ladies  went  the  round  of  the  tables,  in  a crush  of  other 
ladies,  all  rapturous.  The  Louis  Quartorze  fans,  the  carved 
ivory,  the  Brussels  point,  the  oxidized  silver  glove-boxes,  and 
malachite  blotting-books;  the  pearls,  turquois,  ormolu;  the  an- 
tique candles  and  candlesticks;  Queen  Anne  tea-pots;  diamond 
stars,  combs,  tiaras;  prayer-books  and  Christian  Years.  The 


102 


VIXEN. 


special  presents  which  stood  out  from  this  chaos  of  common- 
place were  a riviere  of  diamonds  from  the  Earl  of  Soutlj minster, 
a Cashmere  sliawl  from  her  Majesty,  a basket  of  orchids  (val- 
ued at  five  hundred  guineas)  from  Lady  EUangowan,  a pair  of 
priceless  crackle  jars,  a Sevres  dinner  service  of  the  old  bleu-du- 
roi,  a set  of  knives  of  which  the  handles  had  all  been  taken  from 
stags  slaughtered  by  the  South  minster  hounds. 

“ This  is  all  very  well  for  the  wall-flowers,”  said  Captain  Car- 
michael to  Violet,  but  you  and  I are  losing  our  dances.” 

“ I don’t  much  care  about  dancing,”  answered  Vixen,  wea- 
rily. 

She  had  been  looking  at  this  gorgeous  display  of  bracelets  and 
tea-cups,  silver-gilt  dressing-cases  and  ivory  hair-brushes,  with- 
out seeing  anything.  She  was  thinking  of  Eoderick  Vawdrey, 
and  how  odd  a thing  it  was  that  he  should  seem  so  utter  a stran- 
ger to  her. 

“He  has  gone  up  into  the  ducal  circle,”  she  said  to  herself. 
“ He  is  translated.  It  is  almost  as  if  he  had  wings.  He  is  cer- 
tainly as  far  away  from  me  as  if  he  were  a bishop.” 

They  struggled  back  to  the  picture-gallery,  and  here  Lady  El- 
langowan  took  possession  of  Violet,  and  got  her  distinguished 
partners  for  all  the  dances  till  supper-time.  She  found  herself 
receiving  a gracious  little  nod  from  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne  in 
the  ladies’  chain.  Neither  two  years  nor  foreign  travel  had 
made  any  change  in  the  hope  of  the  Dovedales.  She  was  still 
the  same  sylph-like  being  dressed  in  palest  green,  the  color  of  a 
duck’s  egg,  with  diamonds  in  strictest  moderation,  and  pearls 
that  would  have  done  honor  to  a princess. 

“Do  you  think  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne  very  beautiful?”  Vixen 
asked  Lady  EUangowan,  curious  to  hear  the  opinion  of  experi- 
ence and  authority. 

“ No;  she’s  too  shadowy  for  my  taste,”  replied  her  ladyship, 
who  was  the  reverse  of  sylph-like.  “ Wasn’t  there  some  one  in 
mythology  who  fell  in  love  with  a cloud  ? Lady  Mabel  would 
just  suit  that  sort  of  person.  And  then  she  is  over-educated 
and  conceited — sets  up  for  a modern  Lady  Jane  Grey,  quotes 
Greek  plays,  I believe,  and  looks  astounded  if  people  don’t  un- 
derstand her.  She’ll  end  by  establishing  a female  college,  like 
Tennyson’s  Princess.” 

“ Oh,  but  she  is  engaged  to  be  married  to  Mr.  Vawdrey.” 

“Her  cousin?  Very  foolish!  That  may  go  off  by  and  by. 
First  engagements  seldom  come  to  anything.” 

Violet  thought  herself  a hateful  creature  for  being  inwardly 
grateful  to  Lady  EUangowan  for  this  speech. 

She  had  seen  Roderick  spinning  round  with  his  cousin.  He 
was  a good  waltzer,  but  not  a graceful  one.  He  steered  his  way 
well,  and  went  with  a strong  sv*’ing  that  covered  a great  deal 
of  groujid;  but  there  was  a want  of  finish.  Lady  Mabel  looked 
as  if  she  were  being  carried  away  by  a maelstrom.  And  now 
people  began  to  move  toward  the  supper-rooms,  of  which  there 
w’ere  two  luxuriously  arranged  with  numerous  round  tables,  in 
the  way  that  was  still  a novelty  when  J.otJiair  was  written. 
This  gave  more  room  for  the  dancers.  The  people  for  whom  a 


VIXEK 


108 


ball  meant  a surfeit  of  Perigord  pie,  truffled  turkey,  salmon  may- 
onnaise, and  early  strawbemes,  went  for  their  first  innings, 
meaning  to  return  to  that  happy  hunting  ground  as  often  as 
proved  practicable.  Violet  was  carried  off  by  a partner  who  was 
so  anxious  to  take  her  to  supper  that  she  felt  sure  he  was  dying 
to  get  some  for  himself. 

Her  cavalier  found  her  a corner  at  a snug  little  table,  with 
three  gorgeous  matrons.  She  ate  a cutlet  and  a tea-spoonful  of 
peas,  took  three  sips  from  a glass  of  Champagne,  and  wound  up 
with  some  strawberries,  which  tasted  as  if  they  had  been  taken 
by  mistake  out  of  the  pickle  jar. 

“I’m  afraid  you  haven’t  had  a very  good  supper,”  said  her 
partner,  who  had  been  comfortably  wedged  between  two  of  the 
matrons,  and  consuming  mayonnaise  and  pate  to  his  heart’s 
content. 

“ Excellent,  thanks;  and  I shall  be  glad  to  make  room  for 
some  one  else.”  Whereat  the  unfortunate  young  man  was  ob- 
liged to  stand  up,  leaving  the  choicest  morsel  of  truffled  goose 
liver  on  his  plate. 

The  crowd  in  the  picture-gallery  was  thinner  when  Violet 
went  back.  In  the  doorway  she  met  Eodeiick  Vawdrey. 

“ Haven’t  you  kept  a single  dance  for  me,  Violet  ?”  he  asked. 

“ You,  didn’t  ask  me  to  keep  one.” 

“Didn’t  I?  Perhaps  I was  afraid  of  Captain  Carmichael’s 
displeasure.  He  would  have  objected,  no  doubt.” 

“Why  should  he  object,  unless  I broke  an  engagement  to 
him  ?” 

“Would  he  not?  Are  you  actually  free  to  be  asked  by  any 
one?  If  I had  known  that  two  hours  ago!  And  now  I suppose 
your  programme  is  full.  Yes,  to  the  very  last  galop;  for  which, 
of  course,  you  won’t  stop.  But  there’s  to  be  an  extra  waltz  pres- 
ently. You  must  give  me  that.” 

She  said  neither  yes  nor  no,  and  he  put  her  hands  through  his 
arm,  and  led  her  up  the  room. 

“ Have  you  seen  mamma?” 

“ Yes.  She  thinks  I am  grown.  She  forgets  that  I was  one- 
and-twenty  when  we  last  met.  That  does  not  leave  much  mar- 
gin for  growing,  unless  a man  went  on  getting  taller  indefinite- 
ly, like  Lord  Southminster’s  palms.  He  had  to  take  the  roof 
off  his  palm-house  last  year,  you  know.  What  a dreadful  thing 
if  I were  to  become  a Norfolk  giant — giants  are  indigenous  to 
Norfolk,  aren’t  they? — and  were  obliged  to  take  the  roof  off 
Briar  wood!  Have  you  seen  the  duchess  ?” 

“ Only  in  the  distance.  I hardly  know  her  a.t  all,  you  know.” 

“That’s  absurd.  You  ought  to  know  her  very  well.  You 
must  be  quite  intimate  with  her  bv  and  bv,  when  we  are  all 
settled  down  as  steady-going  married  people.” 

The  little  gloved  hand  on  his  arm  quivered  ever  so  slightly. 
This  was  a distinct  allusion  to  bis  approaching  marriage. 

“Lovely  room,  isn’t  it?  Just  tbe  riglit  thing  for  a ball 
How  do  you  like  the  Rubens  ? Very  grand— a magnificent  dis- 
play of  carmines — beautiful,  if  you  are  an  admirer  of  Rubens. 
What  a draughtsman!  The  Italian  school  rarely  achieved  that 


104 


VIXEN. 


freedom  of  pencil.  Isn't  that  Greuze  enchanting?  There  is  an 
innocence,  a freslmees,  about  his  girlish  faces  that  nobod  % has 
ever  equaled.  His  women  are  not  Madonnas,  or  Junos,  or  Hel- 
ens— they  are  the  incarnation  of  girlhood;  girlhood  without  care 
or  thought;  girlhood  in  love  with  a kitten,  or  weeping  ovei  a 
robin-redbreast.  ” 

How  abominably  he  rattled  on!  Was  it  the  overflow  of  joy- 
ous spirits  ? No  doubt.  He  was  so  pleased  with  life  and  fate 
that  he  was  obliged  to  give  vent  to  his  exuberance  in  this  gush  of 
commonplace. 

“ You  remind  me  of  Miss  Bates  in  Jane  Austin’s  iimma,”  said 
Vixen,  laughing. 

The  band  struck  up  “Trauriges  Herz,”  a waltz  like  a wail,  but 
with  a fine  swing  in  it. 

“Now  for  the  old  three-time,”  said  Roderick;  and  they  were 
sailing  smoothly  over  the  polished  floor,  with  all  the  fair  pict- 
ured faces,  the  crimson  draperies,  the  sad  Madonnas,  Dutch 
boors,  Italian  temples,  and  hills,  and  skies,  circling  round  them 
like  the  figures  in  r kaleidoscope. 

“ Do  you  remember  our  boy-and-girl  waltzes  in  the  hall  at  the 
Abbey  House  ?”  asked  Rorie, 

Happily  for  Vixen  her  face  was  so  turned  that  he  could  not 
see  the  quiver  on  her  lips,  the  sudden  look  of  absolute  pain  that 
paled  her  cheeks. 

“ I am  not  likely  to  forget  any  part  of  my  childhood,”  she 
answered,  gravely.  “ It  was  the  one  happy  period  of  my  life,” 

“ You  don’t  expect  me  to  believe  that  the  last  two  years  have 
been  altogether  unhappy.” 

“You  may  believe  what  you  like;  you,  who  knew  my  father, 
ought  to  know — ” 

“ The  dear  squire!  do  you  think  I am  likely  to  undervalue  him, 
or  to  forget  your  loss?  No,  Violet,  no.  But  there  are  compen- 
sations. I heard  of  you  at  Brighton.  You  were  very  happy 
there,  were  you  not  ?” 

“ 1 liked  Brighlon  pretty  well.  And  I had  Arion  there  all  the 
while.  There  are  some  capital  rides  on  the  Downs.” 

“ Yes,  and  you  had  agreeable  friends  tliere.” 

“ Yes,  we  knew  a good  many  pleasant  people,  and  went  to  a 
great  many  concerts.  I heard  all  the  good  singers,  and  Ma- 
dame Goddard  ever  so  many  times.” 

They  went  on  till  the  end  of  the  waltz,  and  then  walked 
slowly  round  tlie  room,  glancing  at  the  pictures  as  they  went 
by.  The  duchess  was  not  in  sight. 

“Shall  we  go  and  look  at  tlie  palms?”  asked  Roderick,  when 
they  came  to  the  archway  at  the  end  of  the  gallery. 

“ If  you  like.” 

“ This  was  the  roof  that  had  to  be  taken  off,  you  know.  It  is 
a magnificent  dome,  but  I dare  say  the  palms  will  outgrow  it 
within  Lord  Southminster’s  time. 

“ It  was  like  entering  a jungle  in  the  tropics,  if  one  could  fancy 
a jungle  painted  with  encaustic  tiles,  and  furnished  with  velvet- 
covered  ottomans  for  the  repose  of  weary  sportsmen. 

There  was  only  a subdued  light,  from  lamps  thinly  sprinkled 


i 


VIXEN. 


105 


among  the  ferns  and  flowers.  There  were  four  large  groups  of 
statuary,  placed  judiciously,  and  under  the  central  dome  there 
was  a fountain  with  Neptune  wooing  Tyro,  under  the  aspect  of 
a river-  god  amongst  bulrushes,  lilies,  and  water-plants, 

Violet  and  her  companion  looked  at  the  tropical  plants,  and 
admired,  with  a delightful  ignorance  of  the  merits  of  these 
specimens.  The  tall  shafts  and  the  thick  tufts  of  huge  leaves 
were  not  Vixen’s  idea  of  beauty. 

‘ ‘ I like  our  beeches  and  oaks  in  the  forest  ever  so  much  bet- 
ter,” she  exclaimed. 

“ Everything  in  the  forest  is  dear,”  said  Rorie. 

Vixen  felt,  with  a curious  choking  sensation,  that  this  was  a 
good  opening  for  her  to  say  something  polite.  She  had  always 
intended  to  congratulate  him,  in  a straightforward,  sisterly 
way,  upon  his  engagement  to  Lady  Mabel. 

“1  am  so  glad  to  hear  that,”  she  began.  ‘‘And  how  happy 
you  must  be  to  think  that  your  fate  is  fixed  here  irrevocably; 
doubly  fixed  now;  for  you  can  have  no  interest  to  draw  you 
away  from  us,  as  you  might  if  you  were  to  marry  a stranger. 
Briarwood  and  Ashbourne  united  will  make  you  the  greatest 
man  among  us.” 

“I  don’t  highly  value  that  kind  of  greatness,  Violet — a mere 
question  of  acreage;  but  1 am  glad  to  think  myself  anchored  for 
life  on  my  native  soil.” 

“ And  you  will  go  into  Parliament  and  legislate  for  us,  and 
take  care  that  we  are  not  disforested.  They  have  taken  away  too 
much  already  with  their  horrid  in  closures.” 

“ Tlie  inclosures  will  make  splendid  pine  woods  by  and  by.” 

“Yes,  when  we  are  all  dead  and  gone.” 

“ I don’t  know  about  Parliament.  So  long  as  my  poor  mother 
was  living  I had  an  incentive  to  turn  senator,  she  was  so  eager 
for  it.  But  now  that  she  is  gone,  I don’t  feel  strongly  drawn 
that  way.  I suppose  I shall  settle  down  into  the  approved  pat- 
tern of  country  squire:  breed  fat  cattle — the  aristocratic  form 
of  cruelty  to  animals — spend  the  best  part  of  my  income  upon 
agricultural  machinery,  and  lecture  delinquents  at  quarter-ses- 
sions.” 

“ But  Lady  Mabel  will  not  allow  that.  She  will  be  ambitious 
for  you.” 

“ I hope  not.  I can  fancy  no  affliction  greater  than  an  am- 
bitious wife.  No.  My  poor  mother  left  Mabel  her  orchids. 
Mabel  will  confine  her  ambition  to  orchids  and  literature.  I 
believe  she  writes  poetry,  and  some  day  she  will  be  tempted  to 
publish  a suiall  volume,  I dare  say:  ^olian  Echoes,  or  Harp 
Strings,  or  Broken  Chords,  Consecutive  Fifths,  or  somethiug  of 
that  kind.” 

“You  believe!”  exclaimed  Vixen.  “Surely  you  have  read 
some  of  Lady  Mabel’s  poetry,  or  heard  it  read.  She  must  have 
read  some  of  her  verses  to  you.” 

“ Never.  She  is  too  reserved,  and  I am  too  candid.  It  would 
be  a dangerous  experiment.  I should  inevitably  say  something 
rude.  Mabel  adores  Shelley  and  Browning;  she  reads  Greek 
too.  Her  poetry  is  sure  to  be  unintelligible,  and  I should  expose 


106  VIXEN. 

my  obtuseness  of  intellect.  I couldn’t  even  look  as  if  I under* 
stood  it.” 

“If  I were  Lady  Mabel,  I think  under  such  circumstances  1 
should  leave  off  writing  poetry.” 

“That  would  be  quite  absurd.  Mabel  has  a hundred  tastes 
which  I do  not  share  with  her.  She  is  devoted  to  her  garden 
and  hot-houses.  T hardly  know  one  flower  from  another,  ex- 
cept the  forest  wildlings.  She  detests  horses  and  dogs.  I am 
never  happier  than  when  among  them,.  She  reads  ^schylus  as 
glibly  as  I can  read  a French  newspaper.  But  she  will  make  an 
admirable  mistress  for  Briarwood.  She  has  just  that  tranquil 
superiority  which  becomes  the  ruler  of  a large  estate.  You  will 
see  what  cottages  and  schools  we  shall  build.  There  will  not  be 
a weed  in  our  allotment  gardens,  and  our  farm  laborers  will  get 
all  the  prizes  at  cottage  flower  shows.” 

“ You  will  hunt,  of  course?” 

“Naturally;  don’t  you  know  that  I am  to  have  the  bounds 
next  year  ? It  was  all  arranged  a few  days  ago.  Poor  Mabel  was 
strongly  opposed  to  the  plan.  She  thought  it  was  the  first  stage 
on  the  road  to  ruin;  but  I think  I convinced  her  that  it  was  a 
natural  thing  for  the  owner  of  Briarwood;  and  the  duke  was 
warmly  in  favor  of  it.” 

“ The  dear  old  kennels!”  said  Vixen;  “ I have  never  seen  them 
since — since  I came  home.  I ride  by  the  gate  very  often,  but  I 
have  never  had  the  courage  to  go  inside.  The  hounds  wouldn’t 
know  me  now.” 

“You  must  renew  your  friendship  with  them;  and  you  will 
hunt,  of  course,  next  year?” 

“ No,  1 shall  never  hunt  again.” 

“Oh,  nonsense!  I hear  that  Captain  Carmichael  is  a mighty 
Nimrod — quite  a Leicestershire  man.  He  will  wish  you  to  hunt.” 

“What  can  Captain  Carmichael  have  to  do  with  it  ?”  asked 
Vixen,  turning  sharply  upon  him. 

“ A great  deal,  J should  imagine,  by  next  season.” 

“ I haven’t  the  least  idea  what  you  mean.” 

It  was  Roderick  Vawdrey’s  turn  to  look  astonished.  He 
looked  both  surprised  and  angiy. 

“ How  fond  young  ladies  are  of  making  mysteries  about  these 
things!”  he  exclaimed,  impatiently;  “I  suppose  they  think  it  en- 
hances their  importance.  Have  I made  a mistake?  Have  my 
informants  misled  me?  Is  your  engagement  to  Captain  Car- 
micliael  not  to  be  talked  about  yet — only  an  understood  thing 
among  your  own  particular  friends?  Let  me  at  least  be  allowed 
the  privilege  of  intimate  friendship.  Let  me  be  among  the  first 
to  congratulate  you.” 

“ What  folly  have  you  been  listening  to?”  cried  Vixen;  “ you, 
Roderick  Vawdrey,  my  old  playfellow — almost  an  adopted 
brother — to  know  me  so  little!” 

“ What  could  I know  of  you  to  prevent  my  believing  what  I 
was  told?  Was  there  anything  strange  in  the  idea  that  you 
should  be  engaged  to  Captain  Carmichael?  I heard  that  he  was 
a universal  favorite.” 

“ And  did  you  think  that  I should  like  a universal  favorite?” 


VIXEN. 


107 


should  you  not?  It  seemed  credible  enough,  and  my 
informant  was  positive;  he  saw  you  together  at  a ball  at 
Brighton.  It  was  looked  upon  as  a settled  thing  by  all  your 
Brighton  friends.” 

“ By  Captain  Carmichael’s  friends,  you  mean.  They  may  have 
looked  upon  it  as  a settled  thing  that  he  should  marry  some  one 
with  plenty  of  money,  and  they  may  have  thought  that  my 
money  would  be  as  useful  as  any  one  else’s.” 

“Violet,  are  you  mystifying  me?  are  you  trying  to  drive  me 
crazy?  or  is  this  the  simple  truth?” 

“ It  is  the  simple  truth.” 

“You  are  not  engaged  to  this  man? — you  never  have  been? — 
you  don’t  care  for  him,  never  have  cared  for  him  ?” 

“Never,  never,  never,  never!”  said  Violet,  with  unmistakable 
emphasis. 

“ Then  I have  been  the  most  consummate ” 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  and  Violet  did  not  ask  him  to 
finish  it.  The  ejaculation  seemed  involuntary.  He  sat  staring 
at  the  palms,  and  said  nothing  for  the  next  minute  and  a half, 
while  Vixen  unfurled  her  great  black  and  gold  fan,  and  looked 
at  it  admiringly,  as  if  she  had  never  seen  it  before. 

“ Do  you  really  think  those  palms  will  break  through  the  roof 
again  in  the  present  Lord  South ra in sters  time  ?”  Roderick  in- 
quired presently,  wit!i  a tone  of  intense  interest. 

Vixen  did  not  feel  herself  called  upon  to  reply  to  a question  so 
purely  speculative. 

“I  think  I had  better  go  and  look  for  mamma  and  Mrs.  Sco- 
bel,”  she  said;  “ they  must  have  come  back  from  the  supper-room 
by  this  time.” 

Roderick  rose  and  offered  her  his  arm.  She  was  surprised 
to  see  hovv  pale  he  looked  when  they  came  out  of  the  dusk  Into 
the  brilliant  light  of  the  gallery.  But  in  a heated  room,  and  be- 
tween two  and  three  o’clock  in  the  morning,  a man  may  natu- 
rally be  a little  paler  than  usual. 

Roderick  took  Violet  straight  to  the  end  of  the  room,  where 
his  quick  eye  had  espied  Mrs.  Tempest  in  her  striking  black  and 
scarlet  costume.  He  said  nothing  more  about  the  duchess  or 
Lady  Mabel;  and,  indeed,  took  Violet  past  the  elder  lady,  who 
was  sitting  in  one  of  the  deepest  windows  with  Lady  South- 
minster,  without  attempting  to  bring  about  any  intercliange  of 
civilities. 

“ Captain  Carmichael  has  been  kind  enough  to  go  and  look  for 
the  carriage,  Violet,”  said  Mrs.  Tempest.  “ I told  him  we  would 
join  him  in  j;he  vestibule  directly  I could  find  you.  Where  have 
you  been  all  this  time?  You  were  not  in  the  Lancers.  Such  a 
pretty  set — all  sides,  like  an  old-fashioned  country-dance.  Oh, 
here  is  Mrs.  Scobell”  as  the  vicars  wife  approached  them  on  her 
partner’s  arm,  in  a state  of  utter  dilapidation — not  a bit  of  tulle 
puffing  left,  and  all  her  rosebuds  crushed  as  flat  as  dandelions, 

“ Such  a delightful  set!”  she  exclaimed,  gaspingly. 

“ Tm  afraid  your  dress  has  sufi'ered,”  said  her  partner. 

“ Not  in  the  least,”  protested  Mrs.  Scobel,  with  the  fortitude 
of  that  lady-like  martyr  to  a clumsy  carver,  celebrated  by  Syd- 


108 


VIXEN. 


ney  Smith,  who,  splashed  from  head  to  foot,  and  with  rills  of 
bl  own  gravy  trickling  down  her  countenance,  vowed  that  not  a 
drop  had  reached  her. 

“ This,”  says  the  reverend  wit,  esteem  the  highest  triumph 
of  civilization.” 

“ Your  carriage  will  be  the  third,”  the  captain  told  Mrs.  Tem- 
pest, while  Eoderick  was  putting  Violet’s  cloak  round  her  in  the 
vestibule;  ‘‘  there  are  a good  many  people  leaving  already,” 

Eoderick  went  with  them  to  the  carriage  door,  and  stayed  in 
the  porch  till  they  were  gone.  The  last  object  Vixen  saw  under 
the  Southminster  lamps  was  the  pale  grave  face  of  her  old  play- 
fellow. 

He  w^ent  straight  from  the  porch  to  the  supper-room,  not  to 
find  himself  a place  at  one  of  the  snug  little  tables,  but  to  go  to 
the  buffet  and  pour  out  a glass  of  brandy,  ivhich  he  drank  at  a 
draught.  Yet,  as  a rule,  there  was  no  man  more  abstemious 
than  Eoderick  Vawdrey. 

A quarter  of  an  hour  after  he  was  waltzing  with  Lady  Mabel 
— positively  the  last  dance  before  their  departure. 

“Eoderick,”  she  said,  in  an  awe-stricken  undertone,  “lam 
going  to  say  something  very  dreadful.  Please  forgive  me  in 
advance.” 

“Certainly,”  he  said,  with  a somewhat  apprehensive  look. 

“ Just  now,  wdien  you  were  talking  tome,  I fancied  you  had 
been  drinking  brandy.” 

“ I had.” 

“ Absolute  undiluted  brandy  !” 

“Neat  brandy,  sometimes  denominated  ‘ short’ ” 

“Good  heavens  ! were  you  ill?” 

“ I had  had  what  people  call  a turn.” 


CHAPTEE  XVL 

WHERE  THE  RED  KING  WAS  SLAIN. 

May  had  come.  The  red  glow  of  the  beech  branches  had 
changed  to  a tender  green;  the  oaks  were  amber;  the  winding 
forest  paths,  the  deep  inaccessible  glades  where  the  cattle  led 
such  a happy  life,  were  blue  with  dog-violets  and  golden  w ith 
piimroses.  Whitsuntide  was  close  at  hand,  and  good  Mr.  Scobel 
had  given  up  his  mind  to  church  decoration,  and  the  entertain- 
ment of  his  school-children  with  tea  and  buns  in  that  delightful 
valley  where  an  iron  monument  a little  less  artistic  than  a p'illar 
post-office  marks  the  spot  where  the  Eed  King  fell. 

Vixen,  though  not  particularly  fond  of  school  feasts,  had 
promised  to  assist  at  this  one.  It  was  not  to  be  a stiff  or  cere- 
monious affair.  There  was  to  be  no  bevy  of  young  ladies,  op- 
pressively attentive  to  their  small  charges,  causing  the  children 
to  di’ink  scalding  tea  in  a paroxysm  of  shyness.  The  whole 
thing  was  to  be  done  in  an  easy  and  friendly  manner,  with  no 
aid  but  that  of  the  school-mistress  and  master.  The  magnates 
of  the  land  were  to  have  no  part  in  the  festival. 

“ The  children  enjoy  themselves  so  much  more  when  there  are 
no  finely  dressed  people  making  believe  to  wait  upon  them,” 


VIXEN.  109 

said  Mrs.  Scobel;  ‘‘but  I know  they’ll  be  delighted  to  have  you, 
Violet.  They  positively  adore  you.” 

“ I’m  sure  I caii’t  imagine  why  they  should,”  answered  Violet, 
truthfully. 

“Oh,  but  the}'  do.  They  like  to  look  at  you.  When  you 
come  into  the  school-room  they’re  all  in  a flutter;  and  they  point 
at  you  awfully;  don’t  they,  Miss  Pierson?”  said  Mrs.  Scobel,  ap- 
pealing to  the  school-mistress. 

“ Yes,  ma’am.  I can't  cure  them  of  pointing,  do  what  I 
will.” 

“ Oh,  they  are  dear  little  children,”  exclaimed  Violet,  “and  I 
don’t  care  how  much  they  point  at  me  if  they  really  like  me. 
They  make  me  such  nice  little  bob-courtesies  when  I meet  them 
in  the  Forest,  and  they  all  seem  fond  of  Argus.  I’m  sure  you 
have  made  them  extremely  polite.  Miss  Pierson.  I shall  be  very 
pleased  to  come  to  your  school  feast,  Mrs.  Scobel;  and  I'll  teil 
our  good  old  Trimmer  to  make  no  end  of  cakes.” 

“ My  dear  Violet,  pray  don’t  think  of  putting  Mrs.  Trimmer  to 
any  trouble.  Your  dear  mamma  might  be  angry.” 

“Angry  at  my  asking  for  some  cakes  for  the  school-children, 
after  being  papa’s  wife  for  seventeen  years!  That  couldn’t  be.” 

The  school  feast  was  fixed,  three  weeks  in  advance,  for  the 
Wednesday  in  Whitsun-week,  and  during  the  interval  there 
were  many  small  meteorologists  in  Beechdale  school  intent  upon 
the  changes  of  the  moon,  and  all  those  varied  phenomena  from 
which  the  rustic  mind  draws  its  auguries  of  coming  weather. 
The  very  crowing  of  early  village  cocks  was  regarded  sus- 
piciously by  the  school-children  at  this  period.  It  happened  that 
the  appointed  Wednesday  was  a day  on  which  Mrs.  Tempest 
had  chosen  to  invite  a few  friends  in  a quiet  way  to  her  seven 
o’clock  dinner;  among  the  few  Captain  Carmichael,  who  had 
taken  Mrs.  Hawbuck's  cottage  for  an  extended  period  of  three 
months.  Mrs.  Tempest  had  kno^vn  all  about  the  school  feast  a 
fortnight  before  she  gave  her  invitations,  but  had  forgotten  the 
date  at  the  moment  when  she  arranged  her  little  dinner.  Yet 
she  felt  offended  that  Violet  should  insist  upon  keeping  her  en- 
gagement to  the  Scobels. 

“But,  dear  mamma,  I am  of  no  use  to  you  at  our  parties,” 
pleaded  Vixen.  “ If  I were  at  all  necessary  to  your  comfort,  I 
would  give  up  the  school  feast.” 

“My  dear  Violet,  it  is  not  my  comfort  I am  considering;  but 
I cannot  help  feeling  annoyed  that  you  should  prefer  to  spend 
your  evening  with  a herd  of  vulgar  children — playing  oranges- 
and-lemons,  or  kiss-in-  fche-ring,  or  some  other  ridiculous  game, 
and  getting  yourself  into  a most  unbecoming  perspiration— to  a 
quiet  home  evening  with  a few  friends.” 

“You  see,  mamma,  I know  our  quiet  home  evenings  with  a 
few  friends  so  well.  I could  tell  you  beforehand  exactly  what 
will  happen,  almost  the  very  words  people  will  say;  how  your 
jardinieres  will  be  admired,  and  how  the  conversation  will 
glance  off  from  your  ferns  and  pelargoniums  to  Lady  Ellangow- 
an’s  orchids,  and  then  drift  back  to  your  old  china;  after  which 
the  ladies  will  begin  to  talk  about  dress,  and  the  wickedness  of 


VIXEK 


m 

giving  seven  guineas  for  a summer  bonnet,  as  liirs  Jones,  or 
Green,  or  Robinson,  has  just  done;  from  which  their  talk  will 
glide  insensibly  to  the  iniquities  of  modern  servants;  and  when 
those  have  been  discussed  exhaustively,  one  of  the  younger  ladies 
will  tell  you  the  plot  of  the  last  novel  she  has  had  from  Mudie’s, 
with  an  infinite  number  of  ‘you  knows’  and  ‘you  sees,’ and 
then  perhaps  Captain  Carmichael — he  is  coming,  I suppose — will 
sing  a French  song,  of  which  the  company  will  understand  about 
four  words  in  every  verse,  and  then  you  will  show  Mrs.  Carteret 
your  last  piece  of  art  needle- work ’ 

“ What  nonsense  you  talk,  Violet!  However,  if  you  prefer  the 
children  at  Stony  Cross  to  the  society  of  your  mother  and  your 
mother’s  friends,  you  must  take  your  own  way.” 

“ And  you  will  forgive  me  in  advance,  dear  mamma  ?” 

‘‘  My  lov^e,  I have  nothing  to  forgive.  I only  deplore  a bent  of 
mind  which  I can  but  think  unladylike.” 

Vixen  was  glad  to  be  let  off  with  so  brief  a lecture.  In  her 
heart  of  hearts  she  was  not  at  all  sorry  that  her  mothers  friend- 
ly dinner  should  fall  on  a day  which  she  had  promised  to  spend 
elsewhere.  It  was  a treat  to  escape  the  sameness  of  that  polite 
entertainment.  Yes,  Captain  Carmichael  was  to  be  there,  of 
course,  and  prolonged  acquaintance  had  not  lessened  her  dislike 
to  that  gentleman.  She  had  seen  him  frequently  during  his 
residence  at  the  Hawbuck  cottage,  not  at  her  mother’s  house 
only,  but  at  all  the  best  houses  in  the  neighborhood.  He  had 
done  nothing  to  offend  her.  He  had  been  studiously  polite,  and 
that  was  all.  Not  by  one  w’ord  had  he  reminded  Violet  of  that 
moonlight  walk  in  the  Pavilion  garden;  not  by  so  much  as  a 
glance  or  a sigh  had  he  hinted  at  a hidden  passion.  So  far  she 
could  make  no  complaint  against  against  him.  But  the  attrition 
of  frequent  intercourse  did  not  wear  off  the  sharp  edge  of  her 
dislike. 

Wednesday  afternoon  came,  and  any  evil  auguries  that  had 
been  drawn  from  the  noontide  crowing  of  restless  village  cocks 
was  set  at  naught,  for  the  weather  was  peerless:  a midsummer 
sky  and  golden  sunlight  upon  all  things — upon  white- walled  cot- 
tages and  orchards,  and  gardens  where  the  pure  lilies  were  be- 
ginning to  blow,  upon  the  yellow-green  oak  leaves  and  deepen- 
ing bloom  of  the  beech,  and  tlie  long  straight  roads  cleaving  the 
heart  of  the  forest. 

Violet  had  arranged  to  drive  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scobel  in  her  pony- 
carriage.  She  was  at  the  door  of  their  snug  little  vicarage  at 
three  o’clock,  the  vivacious  Titmouse  tossing  his  head  and  jin- 
gling his  bitin  a burst  of  pettishness  at  the  aggravating  behavior 
of  the  flies. 

Mrs.  Scobel  came  fluttering  out,  with  the  vicar  behind  her. 
Both  carried  baskets,  and  behind  them  came  an  old  servant,  who 
had  been  Mrs.  Scobel’s  nurse — a woman  with  a figure  like  a 
hogshead  of  wine,  and  a funny  little  head  at  the  top — carrying 
a third  basket. 

“The  buns  and  bread  have  gone  straight  from  the  village,” 
said  the  vicar’s  wife.  “How  well  you  are  looking,  Violet!  I 


VIXEN,  111 

hope  dear  Mrs.  Tempest  was  not  very  angry  at  your  coming 
with  us.” 

“ Dear  Mrs.  Tempest  didn't  caie  a straw,”  Vixen  answered, 
laughing.  ‘‘  But  she  thinks  me  wanting  in  dignity  for  liking  to 
have  a romp  Avith  the  school-children.” 

All  the  baskets  were  in  by  this  time,  and  Titmouse  was  in  a 
paroxysm  of  impatience;  so  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scobel  seated  them- 
selves quickly,  and  Vixen  gave  her  reins  a little  shake  that 
meant  Go,  and  off  went  the  pony,  at  a pace  which  was  rather 
like  running  away. 

The  vicar  looked  slightly  uneasy. 

“ Does  he  always  go  as  fast  as  this?”  he  inquired. 

“Sometimes  a good  deal  faster.  He's  an  old  fencer,  you 
know,  and  hasn’t  forgotten  his  jumping  days.  But,  of  course, 
I don’t  let  him  jump  with  the  carriage.” 

“ I should  think  not,”  ejaculated  the  vicar — “ unless  you 
wanted  to  commit  suicide  and  murder.  Don’t  you  think  you 
could  make  him  go  a little  steadier?  He’s  going  rather  like  a 
dog  with  a tin  kettle  at  his  tail,  and  if  the  kettle  were  to  tip 
over ” 

“Oh,  he’ll  settle  down  presently,”  said  Vixen,  coolly.  “I 
don’t  want  to  interfere  with  him;  it  makes  him  ill-temperedo 
And  if  he  were  to  take  to  kicking ” 

“If  you’ll  pull  him  up,  I think  I’ll  get  out  and  walk,”  said 
Mr.  Scobel,  the  back  of  whose  head  was  on  a level  with  the 
arc  which  the  pony’s  hoofs  would  have  been  likely  to  de- 
scribe in  the  event  of  kicking. 

“Oh,  please  don’t!”  cried  Vixen.  “If  you  do  that,  I shall 
think  you’ve  no  confidence  in  my  driving.” 

She  pulled  Titmouse  together,  and  got  him  into  an  unobjec- 
tionable trot — a trot  which  got  over  the  ground  very  fast,  with- 
out giving  the  occupants  of  the  carriage  the  uncomfortable  sen- 
sation of  sitting  behind  a pony  intent  on  getting  to  the  sharp 
edge  of  the  horizon  and  throwing  himself  over. 

They  were  going  up  a long  hill.  Half-way  up  they  came  to 
the  gate  of  the  kennels.  Violet  looked  at  it  with  a curious  half- 
reluctant  glance  that  expressed  the  keenest  pain. 

“Poor  papa,”  she  sighed.  “He  never  seemed  happier  than 
when  he  used  to  take  me  to  see  the  hounds.” 

“Mr.  Vawdrey  is  to  have  them  next  year,”  said  Mrs.  Scobel. 
“ That  seems  right  and  proper.  He  wiirbe  the  biggest  man  in 
this  part  of  the  country  when  the  Ashbourne  and  Briarwood  es- 
tates are  united.  And  the  duke  cannot  live  very  long — a man 
who  gives  his  mind  to  eating  and  drinking,  and  is  laid  up  with 
gout  twice  a year.” 

“ Do  you  know  when  they  are  to  be  married?”  asked  Vixen, 
with  an  unconcerned  air. 

“ At  the  end  of  this  year,  I am  told.  Lady  Jane  died  last  No- 
vember. They  would  hardly  have  the  wedding  before  a twelve- 
month was  over.  Have  you  seen  much  of  Mr.  Vawdrey  since  he 
icame  back  ?” 

“ I believe  I have  seen  him  three  times,  once  at  Lady  South- 
minster’s  ball;  once  when  he  came  to  call  upon  mamma;  once  at 


112 


VIXEN. 


kettle-drum  at  Ellangowan,  where  he  was  in  attendance  upon 
Lady  Mabel.  He  looked  rather  like  a little  dog  at  the  end  of  a 
string;  he  had  just  that  meekly  obedient  look,  combined  with  an 
expression  of  not  wanting  to  be  there,  which  you  see  in  a dog. 
If  I were  engaged,  I would  not  take  my  fiance  to  kettle-drums.’’ 

‘'Ah,  Violet,  when  are  you  going  to  be  engaged?”  cried  Mrs. 
Scobel,  in  a burst  of  playfulness.  “ Where  is  the  man  worthy 
of  you?” 

“Nowhere;  unless  Heaven  would  make  me  such  a man  as  my 
father.” 

“You  and  Mr.  Vawdrey  were  such  friends  when  you  were 
girl  and  boy,  I used  sometimes  to  fancy  it  would  lead  to  a last- 
ing attachment.” 

“Did  you?  That  was  a great  mistake.  I am  not  half  good 
enough  for  Mr.  Vawdrey.  I was  well  enough  for  a playfellow, 
but  he  wants  something  much  nea.rer  perfection  in  a wife.” 

“ But  your  tastes  are  so  similar.” 

“ The  very  reason  we  should  not  care  for  each  other.” 

“ ‘ In  joining  contrasts  lieth  love's  delight.’  I can’t  quite  be- 
lieve that,  Violet.” 

“ But  you  see  the  event  proves  it  true.  Here  is  my  old  play- 
fellow, who  cares  for  nothing  but  horses  and  hounds  and  a coun- 
try life,  devotedly  attaclied  to  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne,  who  reads 
Greek  plays  with  as  much  enjoyment  as  other  young  ladies  de- 
rive from  a stirring  novel,  and  who  hasn’t  an  idea  or  an  attitude 
that  is  not  strictly  aBSthetic.” 

“ Do  you  know,  Vioht,  I am  very  much  afraid  that  this  mar- 
riage is  rather  the  result  of  calculation  than  genuine  affection,” 
said  Mrs.  Scobel,  solemnly. 

“ Oh,  no  doubt  it  will  be  a grand  thing  to  unite  Ashbourne  and 
Briarwmod,  but  Roderick  Vawdrey  is  too  honorable  to  marry  a 
girl  he  could  not  love.  I would  never  believe  him  capable  of 
such  baseness,”  answered  Violet,  standing  up  for  her  old  friend. 

Here  they  turned  out  of  the  forest  and  drove  through  a peace- 
ful colony  consisting  of  half  a dozen  cottages,  a rustic  inn  wliere 
reigned  a supreme  silence  and  sleepiness,  and  two  or  three 
houses  in  old-world  gardens. 

Vixen  changed  the  conversation  to  buns  and  school-children, 
which  agreeable  theme  occupied  them  till  Titmouse  had  walked 
up  a tremendously  steep  hill,  the  vicar  trudging  through  the 
dust  beside  him;  and  then  the  deep  green  vale  in  which  Rufus 
was  slain  lay  smiling  in  the  sunshine  below  their  feet. 

Perhaps  the  panorama  to  be  seen  from  the  top  of  that  hill  is 
absolutely  the  finest  in  the  Forest — a vast  champaign,  stretch- 
ing far  away  to  the  white  walls,  tiled  roofs,  and  ancient  abbey- 
church  of  Romsey;  here  a glimpse  of  winding  water,  there  a 
humble  village — nameless  save  for  its  inhabitants — nestling 
among  the  trees,  or  basking  in  the  broad  sunshine  of  a common. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill.  Bates,  th':;  gray-headed  groom,  who  had 
attended  Violet  ever  sinc.'e  her  first  pony  ride,  took  iDOssession  of 
Titmouse  and  the  chaise,  while  the  baskets  were  handed  over  to 
a lad  who  had  been  on  the  watch  for  their  arrival.  Then  they 
all  went  down  the  steep  path  into  the  valley,  at  the  bottom  of 


VIXEN. 


113 


which  the  children  were  swarming  in  a cluster  as  thic>  as  bees, 
while  a pale  flame  and  a cloud  of  white  smoke  went  up  from 
the  midst  of  them  like  the  fire  beneath  a sacrifice.  This  in- 
dicated the  boiling  of  the  kettle  in  true  gypsy  fashion. 

For  the  next  hour  and  a half  tea-drinking  was  the  all-absorb- 
ing business  with  everybody.  The  boiling  of  the  kettle  was  a 
grand  feature  in  the  entertainment.  Cups  and  saucers  were 
provided  by  a little  colony  of  civilized  gypsies,  who  seem  in- 
digious  to  the  spot,  and  whose  summer  life  is  devoted  to  assist- 
ing at  picnics  and  tea-drinldngs,  telling  fortunes  and  selling 
photographs.  Wtiite  cloths  were  spread  upon  the  short  sweet 
turf,  and  piles  of  bread  and  butter,  cake  and  buns,  invited  the 
attention  of  the  flies. 

Presently  arose  the  thrilling  melody  of  a choral  grace,  with 
the  sweet  embellishment  of  a strong  Hampshire  accent.  And 
then,  with  a swoop  as  of  eagles  on  their  quarry,  the  school- 
children  came  down  upon  the  mountains  of  bread  and  butter, 
and  ate  their  way  manfully  to  the  buns  and  cake. 

Violet  had  never  been  happier  since  her  return  to  Hampshire 
than  she  felt  that  sunny  afternoon  as  she  moved  quickly  about 
ministering  to  these  juvenile  devourers.  The  sight  of  their 
somewhat  bovine  contentment  took  her  thoughts  away  from  her 
own  cares  and  losses;  and  presently,  when  the  banquet  was  con- 
cluded— a conclusion  only  ariTved  at  by  the  total  consumption 
of  everything  provided,  whereby  the  hungry-eyed  gypsy  at- 
tendants sunk  into  despondency— Vixen  constituted  herself 
Lord  of  Misrule,  and  led  off  a noisy  procession  in  tlie  time-hon- 
ored game  of  oranges-and-lemons,  which  entercainment  con- 
tinued till  the  school-children  wore  in  a high  fever.  After  this 
they  had  kiss-in-the-ring.  Vixen  only  stipulating  before  she  be- 
gan that  nobody  should  presume  to  drop  the  handkerchief  be- 
fore her.  Then  came  touchwood — a game  ciiarmingly  adapted 
to  that  wooded  valley,  where  the  trees  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  planted  at  convenient  distances  on  purpose  for  this  juvenile 
sport. 

“ Oh,  I am  so  tired!”  cried  Violet  at  last,  when  church  clocks 
— all  out  of  ear-shot  in  this  deej)  valley — were  striking  eight, 
and  the  low  sun  was  golden  on  the  silvery  beech  boles  and  the 
quiet  half-hidden  water  pools  under  the  trees  yonder;  “I  really 
don’t  think  I can  have  anything  to  do  with  the  next  game.” 

“ Oh,  if  you  please,  miss,”  cried  twenty  shrill  young  voices — 
**  oh,  if  you  please,  miss,  v/e  couldn’t  play  without  you;  you’re 
the  best  on  us!” 

This  soothing  flattery  had  its  effect. 

^ “ Oh,  but  I really  don’t  think  I can  do  more  than  start  you,” 
sighed  Vixen,  flushed  and  breathless.  ‘ ‘ What  is  it  to  be  ?” 

“ Blind  man’s-buff,”  roared  the  boys. 

“ Hunt-the-slipper,”  sc.reamed  the  girls. 

^ Ob,  blind  man’s- buff  is  best,”  said  Vixen.  “ This  little  wood 
IS  a splendid  place  for  blmdman’s-buff.  But  mind,  I shall  only 
start  you.  Now,  then,  who’s  to  be  blind  man?” 

Mr.  Scobel  volunteered.  He  had  been  a tranquil  spectator  of 
the  sports  hitherto;  but  this  was  the  last  game,  and  he  felt  that 


114 


VIXEN. 


he  ought  to  do  something  more  than  look  on.  Vixen  blind- 
folded him,  asked  him  the  usual  questions  about  his  father’s 
stable  and  then  sent  him  spinning  amongst  the  moss-grown 
beeches,  groping  his  way  fearfully  with  outstretched  arms, 
amidst  shrillest  laughter  and  noisest  delight. 

He  was  not  long  blindfold,  and  had  not  had  many  bumps 
against  the  trees,  before  he  impounded  the  person  of  a fat  and 
scant-of-breath  scholar — a girl  whose  hard  breathing  would 
have  betrayed  her  neighborhood  to  tlie  dullest  ear. 

“ That’s  Polly  Sims,  I know,”  said  the  vicar. 

It  was  Polly  Sims,  who  was  incontinently  made  as  blind  as  Fort- 
une or  Justice,  or  any  other  of  the  deities  who  dispense  benefits 
to  man.  Polly  floundered  about  among  the  trees  for  a long 
time,  making  frantic  efforts  to  catch  the  empty  air,  panting  like 
a human  steam-engine,  and  nearly  knocking  out  what  small 
amount  of  brains  she  might  possess  against  the  gray  branches 
outstretched  like  the  lean  arms  of  Macbeth’s  weird  women 
across  her  path.  Finally  Polly  Sims  succeeded  in  catching  Bobby 
Jones,  whom  she  clutched  with  the  tenacity  of  an  octopus;  and 
then  came  the  reign  of  Bobby  Jones,  who  was  an  expert  at  the 
game,  and  who  kept  the  whole  party  on  the  qui  vive  by  his  ser- 
pentine windings  and  twistings  among  the  stout  old  trunks. 

Presently  there  was  a shrill  yell  of  triumph.  Bobby  had 
caught  Miss  Tempest. 

‘‘  I know’d  her  by  her  musling  gownd,”  be  roared. 

Violet  submitted  with  a good  grace. 

“ I’m  dreadfully  tired,”  she  said,  “ and  I’m  sure  I sha’n’t  catch 
any  one.” 

The  sun  had  been  getting  lower  and  lower.  There  were 
splashes  of  golden  light  on  the  smooth  gray  beech  boles,  and 
that  was  all.  Soon  these  would  fade,  and  all  would  be  gloom. 
The  grove  had  an  awful  look  already.  One  would  expect  to 
meet  some  ghostly  Druid,  or  some  witch  of  eld  among  the 
shadowy  tracks  left  by  the  forest  wildings.  Vixen  went  about 
her  work  languidly.  She  was  really  tired,  and  was  glad  to  think 
her  day’s  labors  were  over.  She  went  slowly  in  and  out  among 
the  trees,  feeling  her  way  with  outstretched  arms,  her  feet  sink- 
ing sometimes  into  deep  drifts  of  last  year’s  leaves,  or  gliding 
noiselessly  over  the  moss.  The  air  was  soft  and  cool  and  dewy, 
with  a perfume  of  nameless  wild  flowers — a faint  aromatic  odor 
of  herbs,  which  the  wise  women  had  gathered  for  medicinal 
uses  in  davs  of  old,  when  your  village  sorceress  was  your  safest 
doctor.  Everywhere  there  was  the  hush  and  coolness  of  fast- 
coming night.  The  children’s  voices  were  stilled.  This  last 
stage  of  the  game  was  a thing  of  breathless  interest. 

Vixen’s  footsteps  drifted  lower  down  into  the  wooded  hollow; 
insensibly  she  was  coming  toward  the  edge  of  the  treacherously 
green  bog  which  has  brought  many  a bold  rider  to  grief  in  these 
districts,  and  still  she  had  caught  no  one.  She  began  to  think  that 
she  had  wandered  ever  so  far  away,  and  was  in  danger  of  losing 
herself  altogether,  or  at  least  losing  everybody  else,  and  being 
left  by  herself  in  the  forest  darkness.  The  grassy  hollow  in 
vvliich  she  was  ^wandering  had  an  atmosphere  of  solitude. 


VIXEN. 


115 


She  was  on  the  point  of  taking  off  the  handkerchief  that  Mr. 
Scobel  had  bound  so  effectually  across  her  eyes,  when  her  out- 
stretched hands  clasped  something— a substantial  figure,  dis- 
tinctly human,  clad  in  rough  cloth. 

Before  she  had  time  to  think  who  it  was  she  had  captured,  a 
a pair  of  strong  arms  clasped  her;  she  was  drawn  to  a broad 
chest;  she  felt  a heart  beating  strong  and  fast  against  her  shoul- 
der, while  lips  that  seemed  too  familiar  to  offend  kissed  hers 
with  all  the  passion  of  a lover's  kiss. 

“ Don’t  be  angry,”  said  a well-known  voice;  “ I believe  it’s  the 
rule  of  the  game.  If  it  isn’t,  I’m  sure  it  ought  to  be.” 

A hand  at  once  strong  and  gentle  took  off  the  handkerchief, 
and  in  the  soft  woodland  twilight  she  looked  up  at  Roderick 
Vawdrey’s  face  looking  down  upon  her  with  an  expression  which 
she  presumed  must  mean  a brotherly  friendliness — the  delight  of 
an  old  friend  at  seeing  her  after  a long  interval. 

She  was  not  the  less  angry  at  that  outrageous,  unwarrantable 
kiss. 

“It  is  not  the  rule  of  the  game  amongst  civilized  people, 
though  it  possibly  may  be  among  plow-boys  and  servant- 
maids!”  she  exclaimed,  indignantly.  “You  are  really  a most 
ungentlemanlike  person!  I wonder  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne  has 
not  taught  you  better  manners.” 

“Is  that  to  be  my  only  reward  for  saving  you  from  plunging 
— at  least  ankle- deep — in  the  marshy  ground  yonder?  But  for 
me  you  would  have  been  performing  a boggy  version  of  Ophelia 
by  this  time.” 

“ How  did  you  come  here?” 

“ I have  been  to  Langley  Brook  for  a day’s  fly-fishing,  and 
was  tramping  home  acro'^s’,  country  in  a savage  humor  at  my 
poor  sport,  when  I heard  the  chatter  of  smal  voices,  and  pres- 
ently came  upon  the  Scobels  and  the  school-children.  The 
juveniles  were  in  a shite  of  alarm  at  having  lost  you.  They  had 
Deen  playing  the  game  in  severe  silence,  and  at  a turn  in  tiie 
grove  missed  you  altogether.  Oh,  here  comes  Scobel,  with  his 
trencher  on  the  back  of  his  head.” 

The  vicar  came  forward,  rejoicing  at  sight  of  Violet's  white 
gown. 

“ My  dear,  what  a turn  you  have  given  us!”  he  cried.  “ Those 
silly  children,  to  let  you  out  of  their  sight!  I don’t  think  a wood 
is  a good  place  for  blindman’s-buff.” 

“ No,  more  do  I,”  answered  Vixen,  very  pale. 

“ You  look  as  if  you  had  been  frightened,  too,”  said  the 
vicar. 

“It  did  feel  awfully  lonely;  not  a sound  except  the  frogs 
croaking  their  vespers,  and  one  dismal  owl  screaming  in  the 
distance.  And  how  cold  it  has  turned,  now  the  sun  has  gone 
down;  and  how  ghostly  the  beeches  look  in  their  green  mantles! 
There  is  something  awful  in  a wood  at  sunset.” 

She  ran  on  in  an  excited  tone,  masking  her  agitation  under  an 
unnatural  vivacity.  Roderick  watched  her  keenly.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Scobel  went  back  to  their  business  of  getting  the  children 
together,  and  the  pots,  pans,  and  baskets  packed  for  the  return 


116 


VIXEN, 


journey.  Tbe  children  were  inclined  to  be  noi?y  and  insubordi- 
nate. They  would  have  liked  to  make  anight  of  it  in  this  woody 
hollow,  or  in  the  gorse-clothed  heights  up  yonder  by  Stony  Cross. 
To  go  home  after  such  a festival,  and  be  herded  in  small  stuffy 
cottages,  was  doubtless  trying  to  free-born  humanity,  always 
more  or  less  envious  of  the  gypsies. 

“ Shall  we  walk  up  the  hill  together?”  Roderick  asked  humbly, 
“ while  the  Scobels  follow  with  their  flock  ?” 

“ I am  going  to  drive  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Soobel.” 

“ But  here  is  your  carriage  ?” 

“ I don  t know.  I rather  think  it  v/as  to  meet  us  at  the  top  of 
the  hill.” 

Then  let  us  go  up  together  and  find  it — unless  you  hate  me 
too  much  to  endure  my  company  for  a quarter  of  an  hour,  or 
are  too  angry  with  me  for  my  impertinence  just  now.” 

‘*It  is  not  worth  being  serious  about,”  answered  Vixon, 
quietly,  after  a little  pause,  ‘‘  I was  very  angry  at  the  mement; 
but,  aifter  all,  between  you  and  me.  who  were  like  brother  and 
sister  a few  years  ago,  it  can’t  matter  very  much.  I dare  say 
you  may  have  kissed  me  then.” 

“ I think  I did — once  or  twice,”  admitted  Eorie,  with  laudable 
gravity. 

“ Then  let  your  impertinence  just  now  go  down  to  the  old  ac- 
count. But,”  seeing  him  drawing  nearer  her  with  a sudden 
eagerness,  “ mind,  it  is  never  to  be  repeated.  I could  not  forgive 
that.” 

“ I would  do  much  to  escape  your  anger,”  said  Rorie,  softly. 

“The  whole  situation  just  now  was  too  ridiculous,”  pursued 
Vixen,  with  a spurious  hilarity.  “ A young  woman  wandering 
blindfolded  in  a wood  all  alone — it  must  have  seemed  very 
absurd.” 

“ It  seemed  very  far  from  absurd — to  me,”  said  Rorie. 

They  were  going  slowly  up  the  grassy  hill,  the  short  scanty 
herbage  looking  gray  in  the  dimness.  Glow-woims  were  be- 
ginning to  shine  here  and  there  at  the  foot  of  the  furze  bushes. 
A pale  moon  was  rising  above  the  broad  expanse  of  wood  and 
valley,  which  sank  in  gentle  undulations  into  distant  plains, 
where  the  young  corn  was  grooving,  and  the  cattle  were  grazing 
in  a sober  agricultural  district.  Here  all  was  wild  and  beauti- 
ful— rich  yet  barren. 

“ I’m  afraid  when  we  met  last — at  Lady  Southminster’s  ball 
— that  I forgot  to  congratulate  you  upon  your  engagement  to 
your  cousin,”  said  Violet  by  and  by,  when  they  had  walked  a 
little  way  in  perfect  silence. 

She  was  trying  to  carry  out  an  old  determination.  She  had 
always  meant  to  go  up  to  him  frankly  with  outstretched  hand 
and  wish  him  joy.  And  she  fanced  that  at  the  ball  she  had  said 
too  little.  She  had  not  let  him  understand  that  she  was  really 
glad.  “ Believe  me,  I am  very  glad  that  you  should  marry  some 
one  close  at  home — that  you  should  widen  your  influence  among 
us.” 

“You  are  very  kind,”  answered  Rorie,  with  exceeding  cold- 
ness. “ I suppose  all  such  engagements  are  subjects  for  congra- 


VIXEN. 


117 


tulation  from  a conventional  point  of  view.  My  future  wife  is 
both  amiable  and  accomplished,  as  you  know.  I have  reason 
to  be  very  proud  that  she  has  done  me  so  great  an  honor  as  to 
prefer  me  to  many  worthier  suitors;  but  I am  bound  to  tell  you 
— as  we  once  before  spoke  of  this  subject,  at  the  time  of  your 
dear  father’s  death,  and  I then  expressed  myself  somewhat 
strongly — I am  bound  to  tell  you  tliat  my  engagement  to  Mabel 
was  made  to  please  my  poor  mother.  It  was  when  we  were  all  in 
Italy  together.  My  mother  wms  dying,  and  Mabel’s  goodness 
and  devotion  to  her  had  been  beyond  all  praise;  and  my  heart 
was  drawm  to  her  by  affection,  by  gratitude;  and  I knew  that  it 
would  make  my  poor  mother  happy  to  see  us  irrevocably  bound  to 
each  other— and  so — the  thing  came  about  somehow,  almost  un- 
awares, and  I have  every  reason  to  be  proud  and  happy  that 
fate  should  have  favored  me  so  far  above  my  deserts.” 

“ I am  very  glad  that  you  are  happy,”  said  Violet,  gently. 

After  this  there  was  a silence  which  lasted  longer  than  the 
previous  interval  in  their  talk.  They  were  at  the  top  of  the 
hill  before  either  of  them  spoke. 

Then  Vixen  laid  her  hand  liglitly  upon  her  old  playfellow’s 
arm,  and  said,  with  extreme  earnestness: 

“ You  will  go  into  Parliament  by  and  by,  no  doubt,  and  have 
great  influence.  Do  not  let  them  spoil  the  forest.  Do  not  let 
horrid  grinding- down  economists,  for  the  sake  of  saving  a few 
pounds  or  gaining  a few  pounds,  alter  and  destroy  scenes  that 
are  so  beautiful  and  a delight  to  so  many.  Let  all  things  be  as 
they  were  when  we  were  children.” 

“ All  that  my  voice  and  influence  can  do  to  keep  them  so  shall 
he  done,  Violet,”  he  answered,  in  tones  as  earnest.  “ I am  glad 
that  you  have  asked  me  something  to-night.  I am  glad,  with 
all  my  heart,  that  you  have  given  me  something  to  do  for  you. 
It  shall  be  like  a badge  in  my  helmet  by  and  by  when  I enter  the 
lists.  I tliink  I shall  say,  ‘For  God  and  for  Violet,’  when  I run 
a tilt  against  the  economic  devastators  who  want  to  clear  our 
woods  and  cut  off  our  commoners.” 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  hand,  as  in  token  of  knightly 
allegiance.  He  had  just  time  to  do  it  comfortably  before  Mr. 
and  Mrs,  Scobel,  with  the  children  and  their  master  and  mis- 
tress, came  marching  up  the  hill,  singing  with  shrill,  glad 
Voices  one  of  the  harvest-home  processional  hymns. 

“ All  good  gifts  around  us 

Are  sent  from  heaven  above, 

Then  thank  the  Lord,  oh,  thank  the  Lord, 

For  all  His  love.” 

What  a lovely  nighti”  cried  Mr.  Scobel.  “ I think  we  ought 
all  to  walk  home.  It  would  be  much  nicer  than  being  driven.” 

This  he  said  with  a lively  recollection  of  Titmouse’s  perform- 
ances on  the  journey  out,  and  a lurking  dread  that  he  might  be- 
have a little  worse  on  the  journey  home.  A lively  animal  of 
that  kind,  going  home  to  Lis  stable  through  tlie  uncertain  lights 
and  shadows  of  woodland  roads,  and  driven  by  such  a charioteer 
as  Violet  Tempest,  was  not  to  be  thought  of  without  a shudder. 


118 


VIXEN. 


“T  think  I had  better  walk  home,  in  any  case,”  said  Mr.  Sco- 
bel,  thoughtfully.  “ I shall  be  wanted  to  keep  the  children  to- 
gether.” 

‘•'Let  us  all  walk  home,”  suggested  Roderick.  “We  can  go 
through  the  plantations.  It  will  be  very  jolly  in  the  moonlight-. 
Bates  can  drive  your  pony  back,  Violet.” 

Vixen  hesitated. 

“It’s  not  more  than  four  miles  through  the  plantations,”  said 
Roderick. 

“Do  you  think  I am  afraid  of  a long  walk?” 

“ Of  course  not.  You  were  a modern  Atalanta  three  years 
ago,  I don’t  suppose  a winter  in  Paris  and  a season  at  Brighton 
have-quite  spoiled  you.” 

“It  shall  be  as  you  like,  Mrs.  Scobel,”  said  Vixen,  appealing 
to  the  vicar’s  wife. 

“ Oh,  let  us  walk,  by  all  means,”  replied  Mrs.  Scobel,  divining 
her  husband’s  feelings  with  respect  to  Titmouse. 

“ Then,  you  may  drive  the  pony  home,  Bates,”  said  Violet; 
“and  be  sure  you  give  him  a good  supper.” 

Titmouse  went  rattling  down  the  hill  at  a pace  that  almost 
justified  the  vicar’s  objection  to  him.  He  gave  a desperate  shy 
in  the  hollow  at  sight  of  a shaggy  donkey  with  a swollen  a^ 
pearance  about  the  head,  suggestive  to  the  equine  mind  of  hob- 
goblins. Convulsed  at  this  appalling  specter.  Titmouse  stood 
on  end  for  a second  or  two,  and  then  tore  violently  off,  swinging 
his  carriage  behind  him  so  that  the  groom’s  figure  swayed  to 
and  fro  in  the  moonlight. 

“ Thank  God  we’re  not  sitting  behind  that  brute!”  ejaculated 
the  vicar,  devoutly. 

The  pedestrians  went  off  in  the  other  direction,  along  the  brow 
of  the  hill,  by  a long  white  road  that  crossed  a wide  sweep  of 
heathy  country,  brown  ridges  and  dark  hollows,  distant  groups 
of  firs  standing  black  against  the  moon-lit  sky,  liere  and  there  a 
solitary  yew  that  looked  as  if  it  were  haunted — just  such  a land- 
scape as  that  Scottish  heath  upon  which  Macbeth  met  the  three 
weird  women  at  set  of  sun,  when  the  battle  was  lost  and  won. 
Vixen  and  Rorie  led  the  way;  the  procession  of  school-children 
followed,  singing  hymns  as  they  went  with  a vocal  power  that 
gave  no  token  of  diminution. 

“ Their  singing  is  very  melodious  when  the  sharp  edge  is  taken 
off  by  distance,”  said  Rorie;  and  he  and  Violet  walked  at  a pace 
which  soon  left  the  children  a good  way  behind  them.  Mellowed 
by  a quarter  of  a mile  or  so  of  interesting  space,  the  music  lent 
a charm  to  the  tranquil,  perfumed  night. 

By  and  by  they  came  to  the  gate  of  an  inclosure  which  covered 
a large  extent  of  ground,  and  through  w^hich  there  was  a near 
way  to  Beechdale  and  the  Abbey  House.  They  w^alked  along  a 
grassy  track  through  a plantation  of  young  pines — a track  which 
led  them  down  into  a green  and  mossy  bottom,  where  the  trees 
were  old  and  beautiful,  and  the  shadows  fell  darker.  The  tall 
beech  branches  shone  like  silver,  or  like  wonderful  frozen  trees  in 
some  region  of  eternal  ice  and  snow.  It  was  a wilderness  in 
which  a stranger  would  incontinently  lose  himself;  but  every 


VIXEN. 


119 


foot  of  the  way  was  familial*  to  Vixen  and  Korie.  They  had 
followed  the  hounds  by  these  green  ways,  and  ridden  and  walked 
here  in  all  seasons. 

For  some  time  they  walked  almost  in  silence,  enjoying  the 
beauty  of  the  night,  the  stillness  only  broken  by  the  distant 
chorus  of  the  children  singing  their  pious  strains — old  hymn 
tunes  that  Violet  had  known  and  loved  all  her  life. 

“ Doesn’t  it  almost  seem  as  if  our  old  childish  days  had  come 
back?*’  said  Eoderick  by  and  by.  ‘‘Don’t  you  feel  as  if  you 
were  a little  girl  again,  Vixen,  going  for  a ramble  with  me — 
fern-hunting  or  primrose-gathering  ?” 

“ No,”  answered  Vixen,  firmly.  “ Nothing  can  ever  bring  the 
past  back  for  me.  I shall  never  forget  that  I had  a father — the 
best  and  dearest — and  that  I have  lost  him.” 

“Dear  Violet,”  Roderick  began,  very  gently,  “life  cannot  be 
made  up  of  mourning  for  the  dead.  We  may  keep  their  images 
enshrined  in  our  hearts  forever,  but  we  must  not  shut  our  youth 
to  the  sunshine.  Think  how  few  years  of  youth  God  gives  us; 
and  if  we  waste  those  upon  vain  sorrow* ” 

“ No  one  can  say  that  I have  wasted  my  youth,  or  shut  myself 
from  the  sunshine.  I go  to  kettle-drums  and  dancing  parties. 
My  mother  and  I have  taken  pains  to  let  the  world  see  how  happy 
we  can  be  without  papa.” 

“ The  dear  old  squire!”  said  Rorie,  tenderly;  I think  he  loved 


“ I am  sure  he  did,”  answered  Vixen. 

“ Well,  you  and  I seem  to  have  entered  upon  a new  life  since 
last  we  rode  through  these  w^oods  together.  I dare  say  you  are 
right,  and  that  it  is  not  possible  to  fancy  one’s  self  back  in  the 
past,  even  for  a moment.  Consciousness  of  the  present  hangs 
so  heavily  upon  us.” 

“Yes,”  assented  Vixen. 

They  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  inclosure,  and  stood  leaning 
against  a gate,  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  the  children. 

“ And,  after  all,  perhaps  it  is  better  to  live  in  the  present,  and 
look  back  at  the  past  as  at  an  old  picture  which  we  shall  sooner 
or  later  turn  wuth  its  face  to  the  wall.” 

“I  like  best  to  think  of  my  old  self  as  if  it  were  some  one 
else,”  said  Violet.  “ I know  there  was  a little  girl  whom  her 
father  called  Vixen,  who  used  to  ride  after  the  hounds,  and 
roam  about  the  Forest  on  her  pony,  and  who  was  almost  as 
wil  L as  the  Forest  ponies  herself.  But  I can’t  associate  her  with 
this  present  me,”  concluded  Violet,  pointing  to  herself  with  a 
half -scornful  gesture. 

“ And  which  is  the  better,  do  you  think,”  asked  Rorie,  “ the 
wild  Violet  of  the  past,  or  the  elegant  exotic  of  the  present:” 

“ I know  which  was  the  happier.” 

“Ah,”  sighed  Rorie,  “ liappiness  is  a habit  wo  outgrow  when 
we  get  out  of  our  teens.  But  you,  at  nineteen,  ought  to  have  a 
year  or  so  to  the  good.” 

The  cMldren  came  in  sight,  tramping  along  the  rutty  green 
walk,  singing  lustily,  Mr.  Scobel  walking  at  their  head,  and 
swinging  his  stick  in  time  with  the  tuneful  choir. 


m 


VIXEK 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

* SHALL  I TELL  YOU  THE  SECRET  ?” 

Foic  the  rest  of  the  way  Violet  v/aiked  with  Mrs.  Scobcl,  and 
at  the  garden  gate  of  the  vicarage  Roderick  Vawdrey  wished 
them  both  good-night,  and  tramped  off,  with  his  basket  on  his 
back  and  his  rod  on  Ins  shoulder,  for  the  long  walk  to  Briar- 
wood. 

Here  the  children  separated,  and  ran  off  to  their  scattered 
homes  dropping  grateful  bob-courtesies  to  the  last — louting,  as 
they  called  it  in  their  Forest  dialect. 

“You  must  come  in  and  have  some  tea,  Violet,”  said  Mrs. 
Scobel.  “ You  must  be  very  tired.” 

“ I am  rather  tired;  but  X think  it’s  too  late  for  tea.  I had 
better  get  home  at  once.” 

“Ignatius  must  see  you  home,  my  dear,”  cried  Mrs.  Scobel. 
At  which  tiie  indefatigable  vicar,  who  had  shouted  liimself 
hoarse  in  leading  his  choir,  protested  himself  delighted  to  escort 
Miss  Tempest. 

The  church  clock  struck  ten  as  they  went  along  the  narrow 
forest  path  between  Beechdale  and  the  Abbey  House. 

“Oh,”  cried  Vixen,  “I  do  hope  mamma’s  people  will  have 
gone  home.” 

A carriage  rolled  past  them  as  they  came  out  into  the  road. 

“ That’s  Mrs.  Carteret’s  landau,”  said  Vixen.  “ I breathe  more 
freely.  And  there  goes  Mrs.  Hor wood’s  brougham:  so  I suppose 
everything  is  over.  Hovv  nice  it  is  when  one’s  friends  are  so 
unanimous  in  their  leave-taking!” 

“ I shall  try  to  remember  that  the  next  time  I dine  at  the  Ab- 
bey House,”  said  Mr.  Scobel,  laughing. 

“Oh,  please  don’t,”  cried  Violet.  “ You  and  Mrs.  Scobel  are 
different.  I don't  mind  you;  but  those  dreadful  stiff  old  ladies 
mamma  cultivates,  who  think  of  nothing  but  their  dress  and 
their  own  importance — a little  of  them  goes  a very  long  way.” 

“ But,  my  dear  Miss  Tempest,  the  Carterets  and  the  Horwoods 
are  some  of  the  best  people  in  the  neighborhood.” 

“ Of  course  they  are,”  answered  Vixen.  “ If  they  were  not, 
they  would  hardly  venture  to  be  so  stupid.  They  take  the  full 
license  of  their  acres  and  their  quarterings.  People  with  a coat 
of  arms  found  yesterday,  and  no  land  to  speak  of,  are  obliged  to 
make  themselves  agreeable.” 

“Like  Captain  Carmichael,”  suggested  Mr.  Scobel.  “I  don’t 
suppose  he  has  land  enough  to  sod  a lark.  But  he  is  excellent 
company.” 

“ Very,”  assented  Vixen,  “for  the  people  who  like  him.” 

They  were  at  the  gate  by  this  time. 

“You  sha’n’t  come  anv  further,  unless  you  are  coming  in  to 
see  mamma,”  protested  Vixen. 

“ Thanks,  no;  it’s  too  late  to  think  of  that.” 

“Then,  go  home  immediately,  and  have  some  supper,”  said 
Vixen,  imperatively.  “You’ve  had  nothing  but  a cup  of  weak 
tea  since  two  o’clock  this  afternoon.  You  must  be  worn  out,” 


VIXEK 


121 


“ On  such  an  occasion  as  to-day  a man  must  not  think  of  him- 
self,’ said  the  vicar. 

“I  wonder  when  you  ever  do  think  of  yourself,”  said 
Vixen.  - 

And  indeed  Mr.  Scobel,  like  many  another  Anglican  pastor 
of  modern  times,  led  a life  which,  save  for  its  liberty  to  roam 
where  he  listed,  and  to  talk  as  much  as  be  liked,  was  but  little 
less  severe  in  its  exactions  upon  the  flesh  and  the  spirit  than  that 
of  the  monks  of  La  Trappe. 

The  Abby  House  looked  very  quiet  when  Vixen  went  into  the 
hall,  whose  doors  stood  open  to  the  soft  spring  night.  The  servants 
were  all  at  supper,  treating  themselves  to  some  extra  comforts 
on  the  strength  of  a dinner  party,  and  talking  over  the  evening’s 
entertainment  and  its  bearing  on  their  mistress’s  life.  There 
was  a feeling  in  the  servants’  hall  that  these  little  dinncTS,  how- 
ever harmless  seeming,  had  a certain  bent  and  tendency,  and 
that  one  sinister  to  tiie  household  and  household  peace. 

“He  was  more  particular  in  his  manner  to-night  than  hever,” 
said  the  butler,  as  he  dismembered  a duck  which  had  been 
“ hotted  up  ” after  removal  from  the  dining-room.  “He  feels 
hisself  master  of  tiie  whole  lot  of  us  already.  I could  see  it  in  his 
hi,  ‘ Is  that  the  cabinet  ’ock.  Forbes?’  he  says  to  me,  when  I was 
a-rilling  round  after  the  bait.  ‘No,’  says  I,  ‘ it  is  not.  We  ain’t 
got  so  much  of  our  cabinet  ’ocks  that  we  can  afford  to  trifle  with 
’em.’  Of  course  I said  it  in  a hunder-tone,  confidential  like;  but 
I wanted  him  to  know  who  was  master  of  the  cellar.” 

“There’ll  be  nobody  master  but  him  when  once  he  gets  his 
foot  inside  these  doors.”  said  Mrs.  Trimmer,  the  housekeeper, 
with  a mournful  shake  of  her  head.  “No,  Porline,  I’ll  have 
a noo  pertato.  Them  canister  peas  ain’t  got  no  flavor  with 
them.” 

While  they  were  enjoying  themselves,  with  a certain  chasten- 
ing touch  of  prophetic  melancholy,  in  the  servants’  hall,  Violet 
was  going  slowly  up-stairs  and  along  the  corridor  which  led  past 
her  mother’s  rooms. 

“I  must  go  in  and  wish  mamma  good-night.”  she  thought, 
“though  I am  pretty  sure  of  a lecture  for  my  pains.” 

Just  at  this  moment  a door  opened,  and  a soft  voice  called 
“ Violet,  Violet,”  pleadingly. 

“Dear  mamma,  I was  just  coming  in  to  say  good-night.” 

“ Were  you,  darling  ? I heard  your  footstep,  and  I was  afraid 
you  were  going  by.  And  I want  very  particularly  to  see  you 
to-night,  Violet.” 

“Do  you,  mamma?  I hope  not  to  scold  me  for  going  with 
the  school-children.  They  had  such  a happy  afternoon;  and  eat! 
it  was  like  a miracle.  Not  so  little  serving  for  so  many,  but  so 
few  devouring  so  much.” 

Paniela  Tempest  put  her  arm  round  her  daughter,  and  kissed 
her  with  more  warmth  of  affection  than  she  had  shown  since  the 
sad  days  after  the  squire’s  death.  Violet  looked  at  her  mother 
wonderingly.  She  could  hardly  see  the  widow’s  fair,  delicate 
face  in  the  dimly  lighted  room.  It  was  one  of  the  prettiest 
rooms  in  the  house— half  boudoir,  half  dressing-room,  crowded 


122 


VIXEW. 


with  elegant  luxuries  and  modern  inventions,  gypsy  tables, 
book-stands,  toy  cabinets  of  egg-shell  china,  a toilet- table  a la 
Pompadour,  a writiug  desk  a la  Sevigne.  Such  small  things  had 
made  the  small  joys  of  Mrs.  Tempest’s  life.  When  she  mourned 
her  kind  husband,  she  lamented  him  as  the  some  one  who  had 
bought  her  everything  she  wanted. 

She  had  taken  off  her  dinner  dress,  and  looked  particularly 
fair  and  youthful  in  her  cambric  dressing-gown,  which  had  as 
much  lace  upon  it  as  would  have  bought  a small  holding  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  Forest.  Even  in  that  subdued  liglit  Violet  could 
see  that  her  mother’s  cheeks  were  pinker  than  usual,  that  her 
eyes  were  clouded  with  tears,  and  her  manner  anxiously  agi- 
tated. 

“Mamma,”  cried  the  girl,  “there  is  something  wrong,  1 
know.  Something  has  happened,” 

“ There  is  nothing  wrong,  love.  But  something  has  happened. 
Something  which  I hope  will  not  make  you  unhappy — for  it  has 
made  me  very  happy.” 

“You  are  talking  in  enigmas,  mamma,  and  I am  too  tired  to 
be  good  at  guessing  riddles  just  now,”  said  Violet,  becoming  sud- 
denly cold  as  ice. 

A few  moments  ago  she  had  been  all  gentleness  and  love,  re- 
sponding to  the  unwonted  affection  of  her  mother’s  caresses. 
Now  she  drew  herself  away  and  stood  aloof,  with  her  heart  beat- 
ing fast  and  furiously.  She  divined  what  was  coming.  She  had 
guessed  the  riddle  already. 

“ Come  and  sit  by  the  fire,  Violet,  and  I will  tell  you — every- 
thing,” said  Mrs.  Tempest,  coaxingly,  seating  herself  in  the  low 
semicircular  chair  which  was  her  especial  delight. 

“ I can  hear  what  you  have  to  tell  just  as  well  where  I am,” 
answered  Violet,  curtly,  walking  to  the  latticed  window,  which 
was  open  to  the  night.  The  moon  was  shining  over  the  rise  and 
fall  of  the  woods;  the  scent  of  the  flowers  came  stealing  up  from 
the  garden.  Without,  all  was  calm  and  sweetness;  within,  fever 
and  smothered  wrath.  “ I can’t  think  how  you  can  endure  a 
fire  on  such  a night.  The  room  is  positively  stifling.” 

“ Ah,  Violet,  you  have  not  my  sad  susceptibility  to  cold.” 

“No,  mamma.  I don’t  keep  myself  shut  up  like  an  unset 
diamond  in  a jeweler’s  strong-box.” 

“ I don’t  think  I can  tell  you — ^the  little  secret  I have  to  tell, 
Violet,  unless  you  come  over  to  me  and  sit  by  my  side,  and  give 
me  your  hand,  and  let  me  feel  as  if  you  were  really  fond  of  me,” 
pleaded  Mrs.  Tempest,  with  a little  gush  of  piteousness.  “You 
seem  like  an  enemy,  standing  over  there  with  your  back  to  me, 
looking  out  at  the  sky.” 

“ Perhaps  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  tell  me  anything,  mam- 
ma,” answered  Violet,  in  a voice  which,  to  that  tremulous  list- 
ener in  the  low  seat  by  the  fire,  sounded  as  severe  as  the  voice 
of  a judge  pronouncing  sentence.  “ Shall  I tell  you  the  secret  ?” 

There  was  no  answer. 

“ Shall  I,  mamma?” 

“ I don’t  think  you  can,  ray  love.” 

“ Yes,  I am  afraid  I can.  The  secret— which  is  no  secret  to 


VIXEN. 


123 


me  or  to  any  one  else  in  the  world,  any  more  than  the  place 
where  the  ostrich  has  put  his  head  is  a secret  when  his  body  is 
sticking  up  out  of  the  sand— the  secret  is  that,  after  being  for 
seventeen  happy,  honorable  years  the  wife  of  the  best  and  truest 
of  men,  the  kindest,  most  devoted,  and  most  generous  of  hus- 
bands, you  are  going  to  take  another  husband,  who  comes  to  you 
with  no  better  credentials  than  a smooth  tongue  and  a carefully 
drilled  figure,  and  who  will  punish  your  want  of  faitli  and  con- 
stancy to  my  dead  father  by  making  the  rest  of  your  life  miser- 
able— as  you  will  deserve  that  it  shall  be.  Yes,  mother,  I,  your 
only  child  say  so.  You  will  deserve  to  be  wretched  if  you  marry 
Captain  Carmichael.” 

The  widow  gave  a faint  scream,  half  indignation,  half  terror. 
For  the  moment  she  felt  as  if  some  prophetic  curse  had  been 
hurled  upon  her.  The  tall,  straight  figure  in  the  white  gown, 
standing  in  the  full  flood  of  moonlight,  looked  awful  as  Cassan- 
dra prophesying  death  and  doom  in  the  wicked  house  at  Argos. 

“ It  is  too  bad,”  sobbed  Mrs.  Tempest;  “ it  is  cruel,  undutiful, 
disrespectful,  positively  wicked,  for  a daughter  to  talk  to  a 
mother  as  you  have  talked  to  me  to-night.  How  can  Miss 
M’Croke  have  brought  you  up,  I wonder,  that  you  are  capable  of 
using  such  language  ? Have  you  forgotten  the  Fifth  Command- 
ment?” 

“No.  It  tells  me  to  honor  my  father  and  my  mother.  I 
honor  my  dead  father,  I honor  you,  when  I try  to  save  you  from 
the  perdition  of  a second  marriage.” 

“Perdition!”  echoed  Mrs.  Tempest,  faintly;  “ what  language!” 

“I  knew  when  that  adventurer  came  here  that  he  intended  to 
make  himself  master  of  this  house — to  steal  my  dead  father’s 
place,”  cried  Vixen,  passionately. 

“You  have  no  right  to  call  him  an  adventurer.  He  is  an 
officer  and  a gentleman.  You  offer  him  a cruel,  an  unprovoked 
insult.  You  insult  me  still  more  deeply  by  your  abuse  of  him. 
Am  I so  old,  or  so  ugly,  or  so  altogether  horrid,  that  a man  can 
not  love  me  for  my  own  sake?” 

“ Not  such  a man  as  Ca])tain  Carmichael.  He  does  not  know 
what  love  means.  He  would  have  made  me  marry  him  if  he 
could,  because  I am  to  have  the  estate  by  and  by.  Failing  that, 
he  has  made  you  accept  him  for  your  husband;  yes,  he  has  con- 
quered you,  as  a cat  conquers  a bird,  fascinating  the  poor  wretch 
with  its  hateful  green  eyes.  You  are  quite  young  enough  and 
pretty  enough  to  win  a good  man’s  regard,  if  you  were  a penni- 
less, unprotected  widow,  needing  a husband  to  shelter  you  and 
provide  for  you.  But  you  are  the  natural  victim  of  such  a man 
as  Captain  Carmichael.” 

“ You  are  altogether  unjust  and  unreasonable,”  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Tempest,  weeping  copiously.  “Your  poor  dear  father 
spoiled  you.  No  one  but  a spoiled  child  would  talk  as  you  are 
talking.  Who  made  you  a judge  of  Captain  Carmichael?  It  is 
not  true  that  he  ever  wanted  to  marry  you.  I don’t  believe  it 
for  an  instant.” 

“ Very  well,  mother.  If  you  are  willfully  blind 


124 


VIXEN. 


**  I am  not  blind.  I have  lived  twice  as  long  as  you  have.  I 
am  a better  judge  of  human  nature  than  you  can  be.” 

“Not  of  your  admirer’s,  your  flatterer’s,  nature,”  cried  Vixen. 
“He  has  slavered  you  with  pretty  speeches  and  soft  words,  as 
the  cobra  slavers  his  victim,  and  he  will  devour  you,  as  the  cobra' 
does.  He  will  swallow  up  your  peace  of  mind,  your  self-respect,  * 
your  independence,  your  money— all  good  things  you  possess.  He 
will  make  you  contemptible  in  the  eyes  of  all  who  know  you. 
He  will  make  you  base  in  your  own  eyes.’' 

“ It  is  not  true.  You  are  blinded  by  prejudice.” 

“ I want  to  save  you  from  yourself,  if  I can.” 

“You  are  too  late  to  save  me,  as  you  call  it.  Captain  Car- 
michael has  touched  my  heart  by  his  patient  devotion,  I have 
not  been  so  easily  won  as  you  seem  to  imagine.  I have  refused 
him  three  times.  He  knows  that  I had  made  up  my  mind  never 
to  marry  again.  Nothing  was  further  from  my  though's  than  a 
second  marriage.  I liked  him  as  a companion  and  friend.  That  he 
knew.  But  I never  intended  that  he  should  be  more  to  me  than 
a friend.  He  knew  that.  His  patience  has  conquered  me.  Such 
devotion  as  he  has  given  mo  has  not  often  been  offered  to  a 
woman.  I do  not  think  any  woman  living  could  resist  it.  He  is 
all  that  is  good  and  noble  ; and  I am  assured,  Violet,  that  as  a 
second  father ” 

"V  ixen  interrupted  her  with  a cry  of  horror. 

“ For  God’s  sake,  mamma,  do  not  utter  the  word  ‘father’  in 
conjunction  with  his  name.  He  may  become  your  husband — I 
have  no  Y>ower  to  prevent  that  evil — but  he  shall  never  call  him- 
self my  father.” 

“ What  happiness  can  there  be  for  any  of  us,  Violet,  when  you 
start  with  such  prejudices  ?”  whimpered  Mrs.  Tempest. 

“I  do  not  expect  there  will  be  much,”  said  Vbien.  “Good- 
night, mamma.” 

“ You  are  very  unkind.  You  won’t  even  stop  to  hear  how  it 
came  about — how  Conrad  persuaded  me  to  forego  my  deter- 
mination.” 

“ No,  mamma.  I don’t  want  to  hear  the  details.  The  fact  is 
enough  for  me.  If  it  would  be  any  use  for  me  to  go  down  upon 
my  knees  and  entreat  you  to  give  up  this  man,  I would  gladly 
do  it;  but  I fear  it  would  be  no  use.” 

“ It  would  not,  Violet,”  answered  the  widow,  with  modest 
resoluteness.  “ I have  given  Conrad  my  word.  I cannot  with- 
draw it.” 

“Then  I have  nothing  more  to  say,”  replied  Vixen,  with  her 
band  upon  the  door,  “ except  good- night.” 

“You  will  not  even  kiss  me  ?” 

“ Excuse  me,  mamma;  I am  not  in  a kissing  humor.” 

And  so  Vixen  left  her. 

Mrs.  Tempest  sat  by  the  fading  Are,  and  cried  herself  into  a 
gentle  slumber.  It  was  very  hard.  She  had  longed  fo  pour  the 
story  of  this  second  courtship — its  thrilling,  unexpected  joys,  its 
wondrous  surprises — into  a sympathetic  ear.  And  Violet,  the 
natural  recipient  of  these  gentle  confidences,  had  treated  her  so 
cruelly. 


vixEm 


1S6 


She  felt  herself  sorely  ill-used ; and  then  came  soothing  thoughts 
about  her  trousseau,  her  wedding-dress,  the  dress  in  which  she 
should  start  for  her  wedding  tour.  All  things  would,  of  course, 
be  chastened  and  subdued.  No  woman  can  be  a bride  twice  in 
^er  life:  but  Mrs.  Tempest  meant  that  the  trousseau  should,  in 
/its  way,  be  perfect.  There  should  be  no  rush  or  excitement  in 
/ the  preparation;  nothing  should  be  scamped  or  hurried.  Calm- 
^ ness,  deliberation,  and  a faultless  taste  should  pervade  ail  things. 

I will  have  no  trimming  but  Valenciennes  for  my  under 
linen,”  she  decided;  “ it  is  the  only  lace  that  never  offends.  And 
1 will  have  old  English  monograms  in  satin  stitch  upon  every- 
thing. My  peignoirs  will  require  a good  deal  of  study;  they  ad- 
mit of  so  much  variety.  I will  have  only  a few  dresses,  but 
those  shall  be  from  Paris.  Theodore  must  go  over  and  get  them 
from  Worth.  She  knows  what  suits  me  better  than  I do  myself. 
I am  not  going  to  be  extravagant,  but  Conrad  so  appreciates  ele- 
gance and  taste;  and  of  course  he  will  wish  me  to  be  well 
dressed.” 

And  so,  comforted  by  these  reflections,  Mrs.  Tempest  sank 
into  a gentle  slumber,  from  vrhichshe  was  awmkened  by  Pauline, 
who  had  discussed  her  mistress’s  foolishness  over  a hearty  sup- 
per, and  now  came  to  perform  the  duties  of  the  evening  toilet. 

“ Oh,  Pauline,”  cried  the  widow,  with  a shiver.  “ I’m  glad  you 
awoke  me.  I’ve  just  had  such  an  awful  dream.” 

“Lor,  ma’am!  What  aboutV  ’ 

“Oh,  an  awful  dream.  I thought  Madame  Theodore  sent  me 
home  a dinner  dress — bright  yellov/,  trimmed  with  vivid  orange 
And  when  I asked  her  how  she  could  suppo  e 1 would  wear  any- 
thing so  hideous,  she  assured  me  it  was  the  height  of  fashion.” 


CHAPTEE  XVIII. 

WEDDING  G A R II  E N T S. 

After  that  night  Vixen  held  her  peace.  There  were  no  no 
more  bitter  words  between  Mrs.  Tempest  and  Jier  daughter,  but 
the  mother  knew  that  there  was  a w^eil-spring  of  bitterne-s— a 
Marah  whose  waters  were  inexhaustible — in  her  daughter’s 
heart,  and  that  domestic  happiness,  under  one  roof,  was  hence- 
forth impossible  for  these  two. 

There  were  very  few  words  of  any  kind  betvreen  Violet  and 
Mrs.  Tempest  at  this  time.  The  girl  kept  lierself  as  much  as 
possible  apart  from  lier  mother.  The  widow  lived  her  languid 
drawing-room  life,  dav/dling  away  long,  slow  days  that  left  no 
more  impression  beliind  them  than  the  drift  of  rose  leaves  across 
the  velvet  lawn  before  her  windows.  A little  point-lace,  deftly 
worked  by  slim,  white  fin ereis  fiasliing  with  gems;  a little  Ten- 
nyson; a little  Owen  Meredith;  a little  Browning — only  half  un- 
derstood at  best;  a little  scandal;  a great  deal  of  orange  pekoe, 
sipped  out  of  old  Worcester  tea-cups  of  royal  blue;  an  hour’s 
letter  writing  on  the  last  fashionable  note-paper — elegantly 
worded  inanity,  delicately  penned  in  a flowing  Italian  hand, 
with  long  loops  to  the  Y’s  and  G's,  and  a serpentine  curve  at  the 
ena  of  every  word. 


126 


VIXEN. 


No  life  could  well  have  been  more  useless  or  vapid.  Even  Mrs. 
Tempest’s  charities — those  doles  of  wine  and  soup,  bread  and 
clothing,  which  are  looked  for  naturally  from  the  mistress  of  a 
fine  old  house — were  vicarious.  Trimrner,  the  housekeeper,  di^ 
everything.  Indeed,  in  the  eyes  of  the  surrounding  poor,  Mrg. 
Trimmer  was  mistress  of  the  Abbey  House.  It  was  to  her  they 
looked  for  relief;  it  was  her  reproof  they  feared:  and  to  her  they 
louted  lowest.  The  faded  beauty,  reclining  in  her  barouche, 
wrapped  in  white  raiment  of  softest  China  crape,  and  whirling 
j)ast  them  in  a cloud  of  dust,  was  as  remote  as  a goddess.  They 
could  hardly  have  realized  tliat  she  was  fashioned  out  of  the 
same  clay  that  made  themselves. 

Upon  so  smooth  and  eventless  an  existence  Captain  Car- 
michael’s presence  came  like  a gust  of  north  wind  across  the 
sultry  languor  of  an  August  noontide.  His  energy,  his  prompt, 
resolute  manner  of  thinking  and  acting  upon  all  occasions,  im- 
pressed Mrs.  Tempest  with  an  extraordinary  sense  of  his  strength 
of  mind  and  manliness.  She  must  always  be  safe  where  he  was. 
No  danger,  no  difficulty,  could  assail  her  while  his  strong  arm 
was  there  to  ward  it  off.  She  felt  very  much  as  Mary  Stuart 
may  have  done  about  Bothwell,  when,  moved  to  scornful  aver- 
sion by  the  silken  boy -profligate,  Darnley,  her  heart  acknowl- 
edged its  master  in  the  dark  freebooter  who  had  slain  him. 
There  had  been  no  Darnley  in  Pamela  Tempest’s  life,  but  this 
resolute,  clear-brained  soldier  was  her  Bothwell.  She  had  the 
Mary  Stuart  temperament,  the  love  of  compliments  and  fine 
dresses,  dainty  needle-work  and  luxurious  living,  without  the 
Stuart  craft.  In  Conrad  Carmichael  she  had  found  her  master, 
and  she  was  content  to  be  so  mastered;  willing  to  lay  down  her 
little  sum  of  power  at  his  feet,  and  live  henceforward  like  a 
tame  falcon  at  the  end  of  a striug.  Her  position  as  a widow  was 
an  excellent  one.  The  squire’s  will  had  been  dictated  in  fullest 
confidence  in  his  wife’s  goodness  and  discretion;  and  doubtless, 
also,  with  the  soothing  idea  common  to  most  hale  and  healthy 
men,  that  it  must  be  a long  time  before  their  testamentary  ar- 
rangements can  come  into  effect.  It  was  a holograph  will,  and 
the  squire’s  own  composition  throughout.  He  would  have  no 
lawyer’s  finger  in  that  pie,  he  had  said.  The  will  had  cost  him 
many  hours  of  painful  thought  before  he  rang  the  bell  for  his 
bailiff  and  his  butler,  and  executed  it  in  their  presence. 

Mrs.  Tempest  was  mistress  of  the  Abbey  House  for  her  life, 
and  at  her  death  it  was  to  become  Violet’s  property.  Violet 
was  not  to  come  of  age  until  she  was  twenty-five,  and  till  then 
her  mother  was  to  be  her  sole  guardian  and  absolute  mistress  of 
everything.  There  was  no  question  of  an  allowance  for  the 
maintenance  of  the  heiress,  no  question  as  to  the  accumulation 
of  income.  Everything  was  to  belong  to  Mrs,  Tempest  till  Vio- 
let came  of  age.  She  had  only  to  educate  and  maintain  her 
daughter  in  whatever  manner  she  might  think  fit.  At  Violet’s 
majority  the  estate  w^as  to  pass  into  her  possession,  charged  with 
an  income  of  fifteen  hundred  a year,  to  be  paid  to  the  widow  for 
her  lifetime.  Until  her  twenty-fifth  birthday,  therefore,  Violet 
was  in  the  position  of  a child,  entirely  dependent  on  her  mother’s 


VIXEN. 


127 


liberality,  and  bound  to  obey  her  mother  as  her  natural  and  only 
guardian.  There  was  no  court  of  appeal  nearer  than  the  Court 
of  Chancery.  There  was  no  trustee  or  executor  to  whom  the 
two  women  could  make  their  complaints  or  refer  their  differ- 
ences. 

Naturally,  Captain  Carmichael  had  long  before  this  made  him- 
self acquainted  with  the  particulars  of  the  squire’s  will.  For 
six  years  he  saw  himself  sole  master  of  a very  fine  estate,  and 
at  the  end  of  six  years  reduced  to  an  income  which  seemed  com- 
paratively a pittance  and  altogether  inadequate  for  the  mainte- 
nance of  such  a place  as  the  Abbey  House.  Still,  fifteen  hundred 
a year  and  the  Abbey  House  were  a long  way  on  the  right  side 
of  nothing:  and  Captain  Carmichael  felt  that  he  had  fallen  on 
his  feet. 

That  was  a dreary  June  for  Vixen.  She  hugged  her  sorrow, 
and  lived  in  a mental  solitude  which  was  almost  awful  in  so 
young  a soul.  She  made  a confidante  of  no  one,  not  even  of 
kind-hearted  Fanny  Scobel,  who  was  quite  ready  to  pity  her  and 
condole  with  her,  and  who  was  secretly  indignant  at  the  widow’s 
folly. 

The  fact  of  Mrs.  Tempest's  intended  marriage  had  become 
known  to  all  her  friends  and  neighbors,  with  the  usual  effect  of 
such  intelligence.  Society  said  sweet  things  to  her,  and  praised 
Captain  Carmichael,  and  hoped  the  wedding  would  be  soon,  and 
opined  that  it  would  be  quite  a nice  thing  for  Miss  Tempest  to 
have  such  an  agreeable  step-father,  with  whom  she  could  ride  to 
hounds  as  she  had  done  with  the  dear  squire.  And  the  same 
society,  driving  away  frf»m  the  Abbey  House  in  its  landaus  and 
pony  carriages  after  half  an  hour  s pleasant  gossip  and  a cup  of 
delicately  flavored  tea,  called  Mrs.  Tempest  a fool,  and  her  in- 
tended husband  an  adventurer. 

Vixen  kept  aloof  from  all  the  gossip  and  tea-drinking.  She 
did  not  even  go  near  her  old  friends  the  Scobels  in  these  days  of 
smothered  wrath  and  slow-consuming  indignation.  She  de- 
serted the  schools,  her  old  pensioners,  even  the  little  village  cliil- 
dren,  to  whom  she  had  loved  to  carry  baskets  of  good  things, 
and  pocketfuls  of  half-pence,  and  whose  queer  country  dialect 
had  seemed  as  sweet  to  her  as  the  caroling  of  finches  and  black- 
birds in  the  woods.  Everything  in  the  way  of  charity  was  left 
to  Mrs.  Trimmer  now.  Vixen  took  her  long  solitary  rides  in  the 
woods,  roaming  wherever  there  was  a footway  for  her  horse 
under  the  darkening  beeches,  dangerously  near  the  swampy 
ground  where  the  wet  grass  shone  in  the  sunlight,  the  green 
reedy  patches  that  meant  peril;  into  the  calm  unfathomable 
depths  of  Mark  Ash  or  Queen’s  Bower;  up  to  the  wild  heathy 
crest  of  Boldrewood;  wherever  there  was  loneliness  and  beauty. 

Roderick  had  gone  to  London  for  the  season,  and  was  riding 
with  Lady  Mabel  in  the  Row,  or  dancing  attendance  at  garden 
parties,  exhibitions,  and  fiower  shows. 

‘‘I  wonder  how  he  likes  the  dusty  days  and  the  crowded 
rooms,  the  classical  music  and  high  art  exhibitions  ?”  thought 
Vixen,  savagely.  “ I wonder  how  he  likes  being  led  about  like 


123 


VIXEN. 


a Pomeranian  terrier?  I don’t  think  I could  endure  it  if  I 
were  a man.  But  I suppose  when  one  is  in  love ” 

And  then  Vixen  thought  of  their  last  talk  together,  and  how 
little  of  the  lover’s  enthusiasm  there  was  in  Roderick’s  mention 
of  his  cousin. 

“ In  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I know  that  he  is  going  to  marry 
her  for  the  sake  of  her  estate,  or  because  his  mother  wished  it 
and  urged  it,  and  he  was  too  weak-minded  to  go  on  saying  No. 
I would  not  say  it  for  the  world,  or  let  any  one  else  say  it  in  my 
hearing,  but  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I know  he  does  not  love  her.” 

And  then,  after  a thoughtful  silence,  she  cried  to  the  mute  un- 
responsive woods: 

“ Oh,  it  is  wicked,  abominable,  mad,  to  marry  without  love!” 

The  woods  spolce  to  her  of  Robert  Vawdrey.  How  often  she 
had  ridden  by  his  side  beneath  these  spreading  beech  boughs, 
dipping  her  childish  head  just  as  she  dipped  it  to-day  under  the 
low  branches,  steering  her  pony  carefully  between  "the  prickly 
holly  bushes,  plunging  deep  into  the  hollows  where  the  dry 
leaves  crackled  under  his  hoofs. 

“ I fancied  Rorie  and  I were  to  spend  our  lives  together — 
somehow,”  she  said  to  herself.  “It  seems  very  strange  for  us  to 
be  quite  parted.” 

She  saw  Mr.Vawdrey’s  name  in  the  fashionable  newspapers  in 
the  lists  of  guests  at  dinners  and  drums.  London  life  suited  him 
very  well,  no  doubt.  She  heard  he  was  a member  of  the  Four- 
in-Hand  Club,  and  turned  out  in  splendid  style  at  Hyde  Park 
Corner.  There  was  no  talk  yet  of  his  going  into  Parliament. 
That  was  an  affair  of  the  future. 

Since  that  evening  on  which  Mrs.  Tempest  announced  her  in- 
tention of  taking  a second  husband,  Violet  and  Captain  Car- 
michael had  only  met  in  the  presence  of  other  people.  The 
captain  had  tried  to  infuse  a certain  fatherly  familiarity  into  his 
manner,  but  Vixen  had  met  every  attempt  at  kindness  with  a 
sullen  disdain,  which  kept  even  Captain  Carmichael  at  arm’s- 
length. 

“We  shall  understand  each  other  better  by  and  by.”  he  said 
to  himself,  galled  by  this  coldness.  “ It  would  be  a pity  to  dis- 
turb these  halcyon  days  by  anything  in  the  way  of  a scene.  1 
shall  know  how  to  manage  Miss  Tempest — afterward.” 

He  spoke  of  her  and  to  her  always  as  Miss  Tempest.  He  had 
never  called  her  Violet  since  that  night  in  the  Pavilion  garden. 

These  days  before  her  wedding  were  indeed  a halcyon  season 
for  Mrs.  Tempest.  She  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  millinery  and 
pretty  speeches.  Her  attention  was  called  away  from  a ribbon 
by  the  sweet  distraction  of  agompliment;  and  oscillated  between 
tender  whispers  and  Honiton  lace.  Conrad  Carmichael  w^as  a 
delightful  lover.  His  enemies  would  have  said  that  he  had  done 
the  same  kind  of  thing  so  often  that  it  would  have  been  strange 
if  he  had  not  done  it  well.  His  was  assuredly  no  ’prentice  hand 
in  the  art.  Poor  Mrs.  Tempest  lived  in  a state  of  mild  intoxica- 
tion, as  dreamily  delicious  as  tlie  effects  of  opium.  She  was  en- 
chanted with  her  lover,  and  still  better  pleased  with  herself.  At 
nine-and-thirty  it  was  very  sweet  to  find  herself  exercising  so 


VTXEN. 


i2y 


potent  an  influence  over  the  captain strong  nature.  Siie  could 
not  help  comparing  herself  to  Cleopatra,  and  the  captain  to 
Antony.  If  he  had  not  thrown  away  a world  for  her  sake,  he 
was  at  least  ready  to  abandon  the  busy  career  which  a man 
loves,  and  to  devote  his  future  existence  to  rural  domesticitv. 
He  confessed  that  he  bad  been  hardened  by  much  contact  with 
the  world,  that  he  did  not  love  now  for  the  first  time;  but  he 
told  his  betrothed  that  her  influence  had  awakened  feelings  that 
had  never  before  been  called  into  life,  that  this  love  wbich  he 
felt  for  her  was  to  all  intents  and  purposes  a first  love,  the  fii*st 
pure  and  perfect  affection  that  had  subjugated  and  elevated  his 
soul. 

After  that  night  in  Mrs.  Tempest’s  boudoir,  it  was  only  by 
tacit  avoidance  of  her  mother  that  Vixen  showed  the  intensity  of 
her  disapproval.  If  she  could  have  cone  any  good  by  reprooi 
or  entreaty,  by  pleading  or  exhortation,  sbe  would  assuredly 
have  spoken;  but  she  saw  the  captain  and  her  mother  together 
every  day,  and  she  knew  that,  opposed  to  his  influence,  her 
words  were  like  the  idle  wind  which  bloweth  where  it  Usteth. 
So  she  held  her  peace,  and  looked  on  with  an  aching,  angry 
heart,  and  hated  the  intruder  who  had  come  to  steal  her  dead 
father’s  place.  To  take  her  father  s place:  that  in  Violet’s  mind 
was  the  unpardonable  wrong.  That  any  man  should  enter  that 
house  as  master,  and  sit  in  the  squire’s  seat,  and  rule  the  squire’s 
servants,  and  ride  the  squire’s  horses,  was  an  outrage  beyond 
endurance.  She  might  have  looked  more  leniently  on  her 
mother’s  folly,  had  the  widow  chosen  a second  husband  with  a 
house  and  home  of  his  own,  who  would  have  carried  off  liis  wife 
to  reign  over  his  own  belongings,  and  left  the  Abbey  House 
desolate,  a temple  dedicated  to  the  dead. 

Mrs.  Tempest’s  manner  toward  her  daughter  during  this  period, 
was  at  once  conciliatory  and  reproachful.  She  felt  it  a hard 
thing  that  Violet  should  have  taken  up  such  an  obnoxious 
position.  This  complaint  she  repeated  piteouslv,  with  many 
variations,  when  she  discussed  Violet’s  unkindness  with  her 
lover.  She  had  no  secrets  from  the  captain,  and  she  told  him  all 
the  bitter  things  Violet  had  said  about  him. 

He  heard  her  with  firmly  set  lips  and  an  angry  sparkle  in  his 
dark  eyes,  but  his  tone  was  full  of  paternal  indulgence  presently, 
when  Mrs.  Tempest  has  poured  out  all  her  woes. 

“ Is  it  not  hard  upon  me,  Conrad  ?”  she  asked,  in  conclusion. 

“ My  dear  Pamela,  I hope  you  are  too  strong-minded  to  distress 
yourself  seriously  about  a willful  girl’s  foolishness.  Your  daugh- 
ter has  a noble  nature,  but  she  has  been  spoiled  by  too  much  in- 
dulgence: Even  a race-horse — the  noblest  thing  in  creation — 
has  to  be  broken  in,  not  always  without  severe  punishment. 
Miss  Tempest  and  I will  come  to  understand  each  other  perfectly 
by  and  by.” 

“I  know  you  will  be  a second  father  to  her,”  said  Mrs.  Tern- 
pest,  tearfully. 

“ 1 will  do  my  duty  to  her,  dearest,  be  assured.” 

Still  Mrs,  Tempest  went  on  harping  upon  the  cruelty  of  her 


J30  VIXEN. 

daughter’s  conduct.  The  consciousness  of  Violet’s  displeasure 
wei^^hed  heavily  upon  her. 

“I  dare  not  even  show  her  my  trousseau,”  she  complained; 
“ all  confidence  is  at  an  end  between  us.  I should  like  to  have 
had  her  opinion  about  my  dresses — though  she  is  sadly  deficient 
in  taste,  poor  child,  and  has  never  even  learned  to  put  on  her 
gloves  perfectly.” 

“ And  your  own  taste  is  faultless,  love,”  replied  the  captain, 
soothingly.  “ What  can  you  want  with  advice  from  an  inex- 
perienced girl,  whose  mind  is  in  the  stable?” 

“It  is  not  her  advice  I want,  Conrad,  but  her  sympathy. 
Fanny  Scobel  is  coming  this  afternoon.  I can  show  her  my 
things.  I really  feel  quite  nervous  about  talking  to  Violet  of 
her  own  dress.  She  must  have  a new  dress  for  the  wedding, 
you  know,  though  she  cannot  be  a bride-maid.  I think  that  is 
really  unfair.  Don’t  you,  Conrad  ?” 

“What  is  imfair,  dearest?”  asked  the  captain,  whose  mind 
had  scarcely  followed  the  harmless  meanderings  of  his  lady’s 
speech. 

“ That  a widow  is  not  allowed  to  have  bride-maids  or  orange 
blossoms.  It  seems  like  taking  the  poetry  out  of  a wedding, 
does  it  not?” 

“Not  to  my  mind,  Pamela.  The  poetry  of  wedlock  does  not 
lie  in  these  details — a sugared  cake  and  satin  favors,  a string  of 
carriages  and  a Brussels  veil.  The  true  poetry  of  marriage  is  in 
the  devotion  and  fidelity  of  the  two  hearts  it  binds  together.” 

Mrs  Tempest  sighed  gently,  and  was  almost  resigned  to  be 
married  without  bride-maids  or  orange-blossoms. 

It  was  now  within  a month  of  the  wedding,  which  was  to  be 
solemnized  on  the  last  day  of  August — a convenient  season  for 
a honey-moon  tour  in  Scotland.  Mrs.  Tempest  liked  to  travel 
when  other  people  traveled.  Mountain  and  fiood  would  have 
had  scarcely  any  charm  for  her  “ out  of  the  season,”  The  time 
had  come  when  Violet’s  dress  must  be  talked  about,  as  Mrs. 
Tempest  told  the  vicar’s  wife  solemnly.  8he  bad  confided  the 
secret  of  her  daughter’s  unkindness  to  Mrs.  Scobel  in  the  friendly 
hour  of  afternoon  tea. 

“ It  is  very  hard  upon  me,”  she  repeated — “very  hard  that 
the  only  drawback  to  my  happiness  should  come  from  my  own 
child.” 

“Violet  was  so  fond  of  her  father,”  said  Mrs.  Scobel,  excus- 
ingly. 

“ But  is  that  any  reason  she  should  treat  me  unkindly?  Who 
could  have  been  fonder  of  dear  Edward  than  I was  ? I studied 
his  happiness  in  everything.  There  never  was  an  unkind  word 
between  us.  I do  not  think  any  one  could  expect  me  to  go  down 
to  my  grave  a wddow  in  order  to  prove  my  affection  for  my  dear- 
est Edward.  That  was  proved  by  every  act  of  my  married  life. 
I have  nothing  to  regret,  nothing  to  atone  for.  I feel  myself 
free  to  reward  Captain  Carmichael’s  devotion.  He  has  followed 
me  from  place  to  place  for  the  last  two  years,  and  has  remained 
constant,  in  spite  of  every  rebuff.  He  proposed  to  me  three 
times  before  I accepted  him.’' 


VIXEK 


151 


Mrs.  Scobel  had  been  favored  with  the  history  of  these  three 
separate  offers  more  than  once. 

“I  know,  dear  Mrs.  Tempest,”  she  said,  somewhat  hurriedly, 
lest  her  friend  should  recapitulate  the  details.  “ He  certainly 
seems  very  devoted.  But  of  course,  from  a worldly  point  of 
view,  you  are  an  excellent  match  for  him.” 

“ Do  you  think  I would  marry  him  if  I thought  that  consider- 
ation had  any  weight  with  him  ?”  demanded  Mrs.  Tempest,  in- 
dignantly. And  l\lrs.  Scobel  could  say  no  more. 

There  are  cases  of  physical  blindness  past  the  skill  of  surgery, 
but  there  is  no  blindness  more  incurable  than  that  of  a woman 
on  the  verge  of  forty  who  fancies  herself  beloved. 

“But  Violet’s  dress  for  the  wedding,”  said  Mrs.  Scobel, anx- 
ious to  get  the  conversation  upon  easier  ground,  “Have  you 
really  said  nothing  to  her  about  it?” 

“No.  She  is  so  headstrong  and  self-willed  I have  been  abso- 
lutely afraid  to  speak.  But  it  must  he  settled  immediately. 
Theodore  is  always  so  busy.  It  will  be  quite  a favor  to  get  it 
done  at  so  short  a notice,  I dare  say.” 

“Why  not  speak  to  Violet  this  afternoon?”  asked  Mrs.  Scobel. 

“While  you  are  here?  Yes,  I might  do  that,”  replied  Mrs. 
Tempest,  eagerly. 

She  felt  she  could  approach  the  subject  more  comfortably  in 
Mrs.  Scobehs  presence.  There  would  be  a kind  of  protection  in 
a third  person.  She  rang  the  bell. 

“ Has  Miss  Tempest  come  home  from  her  ride  ?” 

“ Yes,  ma’am.  She  has  just  come  in.” 

“ Send  her  to  me  at  once,  then.  Ask  her  not  to  stop  to  change 
her  dress.” 

Mrs.  Tempest  and  Mrs.  Scobel  were  in  the  drawing-room, 
pitting  at  a gytjsy  table  before  an  open  window,  the  v/idow 
wrapped  in  a China  crape  shawl,  lest  even  the  summer  breeze 
should  be  too  chill  for  her  delicate  frame,  the  Worcester  cups 
and  saucers  and  antique  silver  tea  pot  and  caddy  and  kettle  set 
out  before  her  like  a child’s  toys. 

Violet  came  running  in,  flushed  after  her  ride,  her  habit 
muddy, 

“ Bogged  again  I”  cried  Mrs.  Tempest,  with  ineffable  disgust. 
“That  liorse  will  be  the  death  of  you  some  day.” 

“ I think  not,  mamma.  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Scobel?” 

“Violet,”  said  tlie  vicar’s  wife,  gravely,  “why  do  you  never 
come  to  our  week-day  services  now  ?” 

“ I — I don’t  know.  I’ve  not  felt  in  the  humor  for  coming  to 
church.  It’s  no  use  to  come  and  kneel  in  a holy  place  with  re- 
bellious thoughts  in  my  heart.  I come  on  Sundays  for  decency’s 
sake;  but  I think  it  is  better  to  keep  away  from  the  week-day 
services  till  I am  in  a better  temper.” 

“ I don’t  think  that’s  quite  the  way  to  recover  your  temper, 
dear.” 

Violet  was  silent,  and  there  was  a rather  awkward  pause. 

“Will  you  have  a cup  of  tea,  dear  ?”  asked  Mrs.  Tempest. 

“ No,  thanks,  mamma,  I.  think,  unless  you  have  something 
very  particular  to  say  to  me,  I had  better  take  my  muddy  habit 


132 


VIXEN. 


off  your  carpet.  I feel  rather  warm  and  dusty.  I shall  be  glad 
to  change  my  dress.*’ 

“But  I have  something  very  particular  to  say,  Violet.  I 
won’t  detain  you  long.  You’d  better  have  a cup  of  tea.” 

“ Just  as  you  please,  mamma.” 

And,  forgetful  of  her  clay-bespattered  habit,  Violet  sank  into 
one  of  the  satin-covered  chairs,  and  made  a wreck  of  an  anti- 
macassar worked  in  crewels  by  Mrs.  Tempest’s  own  hands, 

“ I am  going  to  write  to  Madame  Theodore  by  this  evening’s 
post,  Violet,”  said  her  mother,  handing  her  a cup  of  tea,  and 
making  believe  not  to  see  the  destruction  of  that  exquisite  an- 
timacassar; “And  I should  like  to  order  your  dress  for — the — 
wedding.  1 have  been  thinking  that  cream-color  and  pale  blue 
would  suit  you  to  perfection.  A cream-colored  hat — the  Vandyck 
shape — with  a long  blue  ostrich ” 

“ Please  don’t  take  any  trouble  about  it,  mamma,”  said  Vixen, 
whose  cheek  had  paled  at  the  word  “ wedding,”  and  who  now 
sat  very  erect  in  her  chair,  holding  her  cup  and  saucer  firmly. 
“ I am  not  going  to  be  present  at  your  wedding,  so  I shall  not 
want  a dress.” 

“ Violet!”  cried  Mrs.  Tempest,  beginning  to  tremble.  “You 
cannot  mean  what  you  say.  You  have  been  very  unkind,  very 
undutiful;  you  have  made  me  perfectly  miserable  for  the  last 
seven  weeks;  but  I cannot  believe  that  you  would — ^grossly  in- 
sult me — by  refusing  to  be  present  at  my  wedding.” 

“ I do  not  wish  to  insult  you,  mamma;  I am  very  sorry  if  I 
have  pained  you;  but  I cannot  and  will  not  be  present  at  a mar- 
riage, the  very  idea  of  which  is  hateful  to  me.  If  my  presence 
could  give  any  sanction  to  tliis  madness  of  yours,  that  sanction 
shall  not  be  given.” 

“Violet,  have  you  thought  what  you  are  doing?  Have  you 
considered  what  will  be  said — by  the  world  ?” 

“ I think  the  world — our  world — must  have  made  up  its  mind 
about  your  second  marriage  already,  mamma,”  Vixen  answered, 
quietly.  “ My  absence  from  your  wedding  can  make  very  little 
difference.” 

“ It  will  make  a very  great  difference,  and  you  know  it,”  cried 
Mrs.  Tempest,  roused  to  as  much  passion  as  she  was  capable  of 
feeling.  “ People  will  say  that  my  daughter  sets  her  face  against 
my  marriage — my  daughter,  who  ought  to  sympathize  with  me, 
and  rejoice  that  1 have  found  a true  friend  and  protector.” 

“ I cannot  either  sympathize  or  rejoice,  mamma.  It  is  much 
better  that  I should  stop  away  from  your  wedding.  I should 
look  miserable,  and  make  other  people  uncomfortable.” 

“ Your  absence  will  humiliate  and  lower  me  in  the  sight  of  my 
friends.  It  will  be  a disgrace.  And  yet  you  take  this  course  on 
purpose  to  wound  and  injure  me.  You  are  a wicked,  undutiful 
daughter.” 

“ Oh,  mamma!”  cried  Vixen,  with  grave  voice  and  reproach- 
ful eyes — eyes  before  whose  steady  gaze  the  tearful  wddow 
drooped  and  trembled — “is  duty  so  one-sided?  Do  I owe  all  to 
you,  and  you  nothing  to  me  ? Mv  father  left  us  together,  mother 
and  daughter,  to  be  aU  the  world  to  each  other.  He  left  us  mis- 


VIXEN. 


18S 


tres^os  of  the  dear  old  home  we  had  shared  with  him.  Do  you 
think  he  meant  a stranger  to  come  and  sit  in  his  place — to  be 
master  over  all  he  loved  ? Do  you  think  it  ever  entered  his  mind 
tfiat  in  three  little  years  his  place  would  be  filled  by  the  first 
comer — his  daughter  asked  to  call  another  man  father?” 

Th.e  first  comer!”  whimpered  Mrs.  Tempest.  Oh,  this  it  too 
cruel!” 

“Violet!”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Scobel,  reprovingly,  “ when  you  are 
calmer  you  will  be  sorry  for  having  spoken  so  unkindly  to  your 
dear  mamma.” 

“ I shall  not  be  sorry  for  having  spoken  the  truth,”  said  Violet. 
“ mamma  has  heard  the  truth  too  seldom  in  her  life.  She  will 
not  hear  it  from  Captain  Carmichael — yet  awhile.” 

And  after  flinging  this  last  poisoned  dart  Vixen  took  up  the 
muddy  skirt  of  her  habit  and  left  the  room. 

“ It  was  rather  a pity  that  Arion  and  I did  not  go  to  the  bot- 
tom of  that  bog  and  stay  there,”  she  reflected.  “ I don’t  think 
anybody  wants  us  above-ground.” 

“Did  3"ou  ever  know  anything  so  humiliating,  so  shameful,  so 
undutif ul  ?”  demanded  Mrs.  Tempest,  piteouslv,  as  the  door 
closed  on  her  rebellious  daughter.  “ What  will  people  say  if 
Violet  is  not  at  mj^  wedding?” 

“ It  would  be  awkv/ard,  certainly,  unless  there  were  some  good 
reason  for  her  absence.” 

“People  are  so  ill-natured.  Nobody  would  believe  in  any 
excuse  that  was  made.  That  cruel  girl  will  disgrace  me.” 

“ She  seems  strongly  prejudiced  against  Captain  Carmichael. 
It  is  a great  pity.  But  I dare  say  she  will  relent  in  time.  If  I 
were  you,  dear  Mrs.  Tempest,  I should  order  the  dress.” 

“ Would  you  really,  Fanny?” 

“ Yes,  I should  order  the  dress,  and  trust  in  Providence  for  the 
result.  You  may  be  able  to  bring  her  round  somehow  between 
now  and  tlie  wedding.” 

“ But  I am  not  going  to  humiliate  myself.  I am  not  going  to 
be  trampled  on  by  my  daughter.” 

“ Of  course  not;  but  you  must  have  her  at  your  wedding.” 

“ If  I were  to  tell  Captain  Carmichael  what  she  has  said  this 
afternoon — ” 

“He  would  be  very  angry,  no  doubt.  But  I would  not  tell 
him  if  I were  you.” 

“No,  I shall  not  say  anything  about  it.” 

Yet,  before  night.  Captain  Carmichael  had  heard  every  sylla- 
ble that  Vixen  ha<i  said,  with  some  trifling  and  unconscious  ex- 
aggerations, hardly  to  be  a voided  by  a woman  of  Mrs.  Tempest’s 
character,  in  the  narration  of  her  own  wrongs. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

'*1  SHALL  LOOK  LIKE  THE  WICKED  FAIRY.” 

Nothing  in  Captain  Carmichael’s  manner  during  the  sultry 
summer  days  which  went  before  his  marriage  betrayed  his 
knowledge  of  Violet  Tempest’s  rebellious  spirit.  He  would  not 
see  that  he  was  obnoxious  to  her,  and  spoke  to  her  and  looked  at 


134 


VIXEN. 


her  as  sweetly  as  it  there  had  been  the  friendliest  understand- 
ing between  them,  In  all  his  conduct,  in  any  act  of  his  which 
approached  the  assumption  of  authority,  he  went  to  work  with 
supreme  gentleness.  Yet  he  had  his  grip  upon  everything 
already,  and  was  extending  his  arms  in  every  direction,  like  an 
octopus.  There  were  alterations  being  made  in  tiie  garden 
which  Violet  knew  were  his,  although  Mrs.  Tempest  was  sup- 
posed to  have  originated  them.  He  had,  in  some  measure,  as- 
sumed dominion  over  the  stables.  His  two  hunters  were  al- 
ready quartered  there.  Vixen  saw  them  when  she  went  her 
morning  round  with  a basket  of  bread.  They  were  long-bodied, 
hungry-looking  animals:  and  the  grooms  reported  them  raven- 
ous and  insatiable  in  their  feeding. 

“ When  they've  eat  their  corn  they  eats  their  ’ay,  and  when 
they’ve  eat  their  ’ay  they  eats  their  bed.  and  then  they  takes  and 
gnaws  the  wooden  partition.  1 never  see  such  brutes,”  com- 
plained Bates,  the  head  groom. 

Vixen  fancied  these  animals  were  in  some  wise  typical  of  their 
owner.  One  morning  when  Vixen  was  leaning  upon  the  half  door 
of  Arion’s  looke  box,  giving  herself  up  to  a quarter  of  an  hour’s 
petting  of  that  much-beloved  animal,  Captain  Carmichael  came 
mto  the  stable. 

“ Good-morning,  Miss  Tempest.  Petting  that  pretty  little  bay 
of  yours?  I’m  afraid  you’ll  spoil  him.  You  ought  to  hunt  him 
next  October.” 

I shall  never  hunt  again.” 

“ Pshaw!  At  your  age  there’s  no  such  word  as  never.  He’s 
the  neatest  little  hunter  in  the  Forest.  And  on  off  days  you 
might  ride  one  of  mine.” 

“ Thanks,”  said  Vixen,  with  a supercilious  glance  at  the  most 
leggy  of  the  two  hunters;  “ I shouldn’t  care  to  be  up  there.” 

“ Oh,  by  the  way,”  said  Captain  Carmichael,  opening  the  door 
of  another  loose  box,  “ what  are  we  to  do  with  this  fellow  ?” 

‘‘This  fellow”  was  a grand-looking  bay,  with  herculean 
quarters,  short  legs,  and  a head  like  a war-horse.  He  snorted  in- 
dignantly as  the  captain  slapped  his  flank,  and  reared  his  splen- 
did crest,  and  seemed  as  if  he  said  “ Ha!  ha!” 

“ I don’t  quite  know  of  whom  you  are  speaking  when  you  say 
‘ we.’  ” said  Vixen,  with  an  unsmiling  countenance. 

“ Naturally  of  your  mother  and  myself.  I should  like  to  in- 
clude you  in  all  our  family  aiTangements,  present  or  future;  but 
you  seem  to  prefer  being  left  outside.” 

“Yes,  replied  Vixen,  “ I prefer  to  stand  alone.” 

“ Very  well,  then.  I repeat  my  question — though,  as  you  de- 
cline to  have  any  voice  in  our  arrangements,  it’s  hardl}^  worth 
wliile  to  trouble  you  about  it — what  are  we  to  do  with  this  fel- 
low ?’’ 

“Do  with  him?  My  father’s  horse!”  exclaimed  Vixen;  “the 
horse  he  rode  to  his  dying  day!  Why,  keep  him,  of  course.” 

“Don’t  you  think  that  is  rather  foolish?  Nobody  rides  or 
drives  him.  It  takes  all  one  man’s  time  to  groom  him  and  ex- 
ercise him.  You  might  just  as  well  keep  a white  elephant  in  the 
stable^.” 


VIXEN. 


185 


*^He  was  my  father’s  favorite  horse,”  said  Vixen,  with  indig- 
nant tears  clouding  the  bright  hazel  of  her  eyes.  “I  cannot  im- 
agine mamma  capable  of  parting  with  him.  Yet  I ought  not  to 
say  that,  after  my  experience  of  the  last  few  montiis,”  she  added, 
in  an  under-tone. 

“ Well,  my  dear  Miss  Tempest,  family  affection  is  a very 
charming  sentiment,  and  I can  quite  understand  that  you  and 
your  mamma  would  be  anxious  to  secure  your  father’s  horse  a 
good  home  and  a kind  master;  but  I cannot  comprehend  your 
mamma  being  so  foolish^ as  to  keep  a horse  which  is  of  no  use  to 
any  member  of  lier  family.  If  the  brute  were  of  a little  lighter 
build,  I wouldn’t  mind  riding  him  myself,  and  selling  one  of 
mine.  But  he’s  too  much  of  a weight-carrier  for  me.” 

Vixen  gave  Arion  a final  hug,  drying  those  angry  tears  upon 
his  soft  neck,  and  left  the  stable  without  another  word.  She 
went  straight  to  her  mother’s  morning-room,  where  the  widow 
was  sitting  at  a table  covered  with  handkerchiefs  and  glove- 
boxes,  deeply  absorbed  in  the  study  of  their  contents,  assisted  by 
the  faithful  Pauline,  otherwise  Polly,  who  had  been  wearing 
smarter  go’^  ns  and  caps  ever  since  her  mistress’s  engagement, 
and  who  was  getting  up  a trousseau  on  her  own  account,  in 
order  to  enter  upon  her  new  phase  of  existence  with  due  dignity, 

‘‘We  shall  keep  more  company,  I make  no  doubt,  with  such  a 
gay  young  master  as  the  captain,”  she  had  observed  in  the  con- 
fidences of  Mrs.  Trimmer’s  comfortable  parlor. 

“I  can  never  bring  myself  to  think  Swedish  gloves  pretty,” 
said  Mrs.  Tempest,  as  Vixen  burst  into  the  room;  “ but  they  are 
the  fashion,  and  one  must  wear  them.” 

“ Mamma,”  cried  Vixen,  “ Captain  Carmichael  wants  you 
to  sell  Bullfinch.  If  you  let  him  be  sold  you  will  be  the  meanest 
of  women.” 

And  with  this  startling  address  Vixen  left  the  room  as  suddenly 
as  she  had  entered  it,  banging  the  door  behind  her. 

Time,  which  brings  all  things,  brought  the  eve  of  Mrs.  Tem- 
pest’s wedding.  The  small  but  perfect  trousseau,  subject  of  such 
anxious  thoughts,  so  much  study,  was  completed.  The  travel- 
ing dresses  were  packed  in  two  large  oil-skin-covered  baskets 
ready  for  the  Scottish  tour.  The  new  traveliug-bag,  with  mono- 
grams in  pink  coral  on  silver  gilt— a wedding  present  from  Cap- 
tain Carmichael — occupied  the  place  of  honor  in  Mrs.  Tempest’s 
dressing-room.  The  wedding-dress,  of  cream-colored  brocade 
and  old  point-lace,  with  a bonnet  of  lace  and  water-lilies,  was 
spread  upon  the  sofa.  Everything  in  Mrs.  Tempest’s  apartment 
bore  witness  to  the  impending  change  in  the  lady’s  life.  Most 
of  all,^the  swollen  eyelids  ancl  pale  cheeks  of  the  lady,  who,  on 
this  vigil  of  her  wedding-day,  had  given  herself  up  to  w^eep- 
ing. 

“ Oh,  mum,  your  eyes  wdll  be  so  red  to-morrow,”  remonstrated 
Pauline,  coming  into  the  room  with  another  dainty  little  box, 
newly  arrived  from  the  nearest  railway  station,  and  surprising 
her  mistress  in  tears.  “ Do  have  some  red  lavender.  Or  let  me 
make  you  a cup  of  tea.” 

Mrs.  Tempest  bad  been  sustaining  nature  with  cups  of  tea  all 


m 


VIXEN. 


through  the  agitating  day.  It  was  a kind  of  drano -drinking,  and 
she  was  as  much  a slave  of  the  tea-pot  as  t he  forlorn  drunken 
drab  of  St.  Giles’s  is  a slave  of  the  gin-bottle. 

“ Yes,  you  may  get  me  another  cup  of  tea,  Pauline,  I feel 
awfully  low  to-night.” 

“ You  seem  so,  mum.  Pm  sure  if  I didn’t  want  to  marry  him, 
I wouldn’t,  if  I was  you.  It’s  never  too  late  for  a woman  to 
change  her  mind,  not  even  when  she’s  inside  the  church.  I’ve 
known  it  done.  I wouldn’t  have  him,  mum,  if  you  feel  your 
mind  turn  against  him  at  the  last,”  concluded  the  lady’s-maid, 
energetically. 

“ Not  marry  him,  Pauline,  when  he  is  so  good  and  noble,  so 
devoted,  so  unselfish!” 

Mrs.  Tempest  might  have  extended  this  list  of  virtues  indefi- 
nitely, if  her  old  servant  had  not  pulled  her  up  rather  sharply. 

“ Well,  mum,  if  he’s  so  good  and  you’re  so  fond  of  him,  why 
cry  ?” 

“ You  don’t  understand,  Pauline.  At  such  a time  there  are 
many  painful  feelings.  I have  been  thinking,  naturally,  of  my 
dear  Edward,  the  best  and  most  generous  of  husbands.  Twenty 
years  last  June  since  we  were  married.  What  a child  I was, 
Pauline,  knowing  nothing  of  the  world!  I had  a lovely  trous- 
seau; but  I dare  say,  if  we  could  see  the  dresses  now,  we  should 
think  them  absolutely  ridiculous.  Dear  Edward!  He  was  one 
of  the  hansomest  men  I ever  saw.  How  could  Violet  believe 
that  I should  sell  his  horse  ?” 

“ Well,  mum,  hearing  Captain  Carmichael  talk  about  it,  she 
naturally ” 

“ Captain  Carmichael  would  never  wish  me  to  do  anything  I 
did  not  like.” 

The  captain  had  not  said  a word  about  Bullfinch  since  that 
morning  in  the  stable.  The  noble  brute  still  occupied  his  loose 
box,  and  was  fed  and  petted  daily  by  Vixen,  and  was  taken  for 
gallops  in  the  dry  glades  of  the  forest  or  among  the  gorse  and 
heath  of  Boldrewood. 

Mrs.  Tempest  had  dined — or  rather  had  not  dined — in  her  own 
rooni  on  this  last  day  of  her  widowhood.  Captain  Carmichael 
had  business  in  London,  and  was  coming  back  to  Hampshire  by 
the  last  train.  There  liad  been  no  settlements.  The  captain  had 
nothing  to  settle,  and  Mrs.  Tempest  confided  in  her  lover  too 
completely  to  desire  to  fence  herself  round  with  legal  protections 
and  precautions.  Having  only  a life  interest  in  the  estate,  she 
had  nothing  to  leave  except  the  multifarious  ornaments,  frivoli- 
ties, and  luxuries  which  the  squire  had  presented  to  her  in  the 
course  of  their  wedded  life. 

It  had  been  altogether  a trying  day,  Mrs.  Tempest  complained: 
in  spite  of  the  diversion  to  painful  thought  which  was  contin- 
ually being  offered  by  the  arrival  of  some  interesting  item  of  the 
trousseau,  elegant  trifies,  ordered  ever  so  long  ago,  which  kept 
dropping  in  at  the  last  moment-  Violet  and  her  mother  had  not 
met  that  day,  and  now  night  was  hurrying  on;  the  owls  were 
hooting  in  the  forest;  their  monotonous  cry  sounded  every  now 
and  then  through  the  evening  silence  like  a prophesy  of  evil 


VIXEN.  187 

fji  less  than  twelve  hours  the  wedding  was  to  take  place,  and  as 
yet  Vixen  had  shown  no  sign  of  relenting. 

The  dress  had  come  from  Madame  Theodore’s.  Pauline  had 
thrown  it  over  a chair  with  an  artistic  carelessness  which  dis- 
played the  tasteful  combination  of  cream-color  and  pale  azure. 

Mrs.  Tempest  contemplated  it  with  a pathetic  countenance. 

It  is  simply  perfect!’’  she  exclaimed.  “ Theodore  has  a most 
delicate  mind.  There  is  not  an  atom  too  much  blue.  And  how 
exquisitely  the  drapery  falls!  It  looks  as  if  it  had  been  blown 
together.  The  Vandyck  hat,  too!  Violet  would  look  lovely  in 
it.  I do  not  think  if  I were  a wicked  mother  I should  take  so 
much  pains  to  select  an  elegant  costume  for  her.  But  I have 
always  studied  her  dress.  Even  when  she  was  in  pinafores  I 
took  care  that  she  should  be  picturesque.  And  she  rewards  my 
care  by  refusing  to  be  present  at  my  wedding.  It  is  very 
cruel.” 

The  clock  struck  twelve.  The  obscure  bird  clamored  a little 
louder  in  his  woodland  haunt.  The  patient  Pauline,  who  had 
packed  everything  and  arranged  everything,  and  borne  with 
her  mistress’s  dolefulness  all  day  long,  began  to  yawn  piteously. 

“If  you’d  let  me  brush  your  hair  now,  mum,”  she  suggested 
at  last,  “ I could  get  to  bed.  I should  like  to  be  fresh  to-morrow 
morning.” 

“Are  you  tired?”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tempest,  wonderingly. 

“Well,  mum,  stooping  over  them  dress  baskets  is  rather 
tiring,  and  it’s  past  twelve.” 

“You  can  go.  I’ll  brush  my  hair  myself.” 

‘ No,  mum,  I wouldn’t  allow  that  anyhow.  It  would  make 
your  arms  ache.  You  ought  to  get  to  bed  as  soon  as  ever  you 
can,  or  you’ll  look  tired  and  ’aggard  to-morrow.” 

That  word  haggard  alarmed  Mrs.  Tempest.  She  would  not 
have  objected  to  look  pale  and  interesting  on  her  wedding  day, 
like  one  who  had  spent  the  previous  night  in  tears;  but  haggard - 
ness  suggested  age;  and  she  wanted  to  look  her  youngest  when 
uniting  herself  to  a husband  who  was  her  junior  by  some  years. 

So  Pauline  was  allowed  to  hurry  on  the  evening  toilet.  The 
soft,  pretty  hair,  not  so  abundant  as  it  used  to  be,  was  carefully 
brushed;  the  night-lamp  was  lighted,  and  Pauline  left  her  mis- 
tress sitting  by  her  dressing-table  in  her  flowing  white  raiment, 
pale,  graceful,  subdued  in  coloring,  like  a classic  figure  in  a 
faded  fresco. 

She  sat  with  fixed  eyes,  deep  in  thought,  for  some  time  after 
Pauline  had  left  her,  then  looked  uneasily  at  the  little  gem  of  a 
watch  dangling  on  its  ormolu  and  jasper  stand.  A quarter  to 
one.  Violet  must  have  gone  to  bed  bout's  ago;  unless,  indeed, 
Violet  were  like  her  mother,  too  unhappy  to  be  able  to  sleep. 
Mrs.  Tempest  was  seized  with  a sudden  desire  to  see  her  daugh- 
tei. 

“ How  unkind  of  her  never  to  come  near  me  to  say  good- 
night on  this  night  of  ^,11  others!”  she  thought,  “What  has  she 
been  doing  all  day,  I wonder  ? Riding  about  the  forest,  I sup- 
pose, like  a wild  girl,  making  friends  of  dogs  and  horses  and 
gypsies,  and  all  kmds  of  savage  creatures.” 


:88 


vixen: 

And  then,  after  a pause,  she  '•-.ked  herself,  fretfully. 

“ What  will  people  say  if  inv  own  daughter  is  not  at  my  wed-» 
ding  ?” 

The  idea  of  possible  slander  stung  her  iharply.  She  got  up 
and  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  inwardly  complaining 
against  Providence  for  using  her  so  badly.  To  have  such  a re- 
leliious  daughter  ? It  was  sharper  than  a serpent’s  tooth. 

The  time  had  not  been  allowed  to  go  by  without  some  en- 
deavor being  made  to  bring  Violet  to  a better  state  of  feeling. 
That  was  the  tone  taken  about  her  by  Mrs.  Tempest  and  the 
vicar’s  wife  in  their  conferences.  The  headstrong,  misguided 
girl  was  to  be  brought  to  a better  state  of  mind.  Mrs.  Scobel 
tackled  her,  bringing  all  her  diplomacy  to  bear,  but  without 
avail.  Vixen  was  rock.  Then  Mr.  Scobel  undertook  the  duty, 
and,  with  all  the  authority  of  his  holy  olhce,  called  upon  Violet 
to  put  aside  her  unchristian  prejudices,  and  behave  as  a meek 
and  dutiful  daughter. 

“ Is  it  unchristian  to  hate  the  man  who  has  usurped  my  fath- 
er’s place  ?’  Violet  asked,  curtly. 

“ U is  unchristian  to  hate  any  one.  And  you  have  no  right  to 
call  Captain  Carmichael  a usurper.  You  have  have  no  reason 
to  take  your  mother’s  marriage  so  much  to  heart.  There  is 
nothing  sinful  or  even  radically  objectionable  in  a second  mar- 
riage; though  1 admit  that,  to  my  mind,  a vvoman  is  worthier 
in  remaining  faithful  to  her  first  love,  like  Anna  the  prophetess, 
who  had  been  a widow  fourscore  and  four  years.  Who  shall 
say  that  her  exceptional  gift  of  prophecy  may  not  have  been  a 
reward  for  the  purity  and  fidelity  of  her  life?” 

Mr.  Scobel’s  arguments  were  of  no  more  effect  than  his  wife’s 
persuasion.  His  heart  was  secretly  on  Violet’s  side.  He  had 
loved  the  squire,  and  he  thought  this  marriage  of  Mrs.  Tempest’s 
a foolish  if  not  a shameful  thing.  There  was  no  heartiness  in 
the  feeling  with  which  he  supervised  the  decoration  of  his  pretty 
little  church  for  the  wedding. 

If  she  were  only  awake,”  thought  Mrs.  Tempest,  “ 1 would 
make  a last  appeal  to  her  feelings,  late  as  it  is.  Her  heart  can 
not  be  stone.” 

i^he  took  her  candle,  and  went  through  the  daik  silent  house 
to  Violet’s  room,  and  knocked  gently. 

Come  in,”  said  the  girl’s  clear  voice,  with  a wakeful  sound. 

“ Ahl”  thought  Mrs.  Tempest,  triunmhantly,  “obstinate  as 
she  is,  she  knows  she  is  doing  w^rong.  Conscience  won't  let  her 
sleep.” 

Vixen  was  standing  at  her  window,  leaning  with  folded  arms 
upon  the  broad  wooden  ledge,  looking  out  at  the  dim.  garden, 
over  which  the  pale  stars  were  shining.  There  was  a moon,  but 
it  was  hidden  by  drifting  clouds. 

“ Not  in  bed,  Violet?”  said  her  mother,  sweetly. 

No,  mamma.” 

“ What  have  you  been  doing  all  these  hours  ?” 

“1  don’t  know— thinkiiigc” 

“ And  you  never  came  to  wlsli  me  good-night.’* 


VIXEN. 


189 


‘‘I  did  not  think  you  would  want  me.  I thought  you  would 
be  busy  packing — for  your  honeymoon.” 

“That  was  not  kind,  Violet.  You  must  have  known  that  I 
should  have  many  painful  thoughts  to-night.” 

“ I did  not  know  it.  And  if  it  is  so,  I can  only  say  it  is  a pity 
the  painful  thouglits  did  not  come  a little  sooner.” 

“ Violet,  you  are  as  hard  as  iron,  as  cold  as  ice  I”  cried  Mrs. 
Tempest,  with  passionate  fretfulness. 

“ No,  I am  not,  mamma;  I can  love  very  warmly  where  I love 
deeply.  I have  given  this  night  to  thoughts  of  my  dead  father, 
whose  place  is  to  be  usurped  in  this  house  from  to-morrow.” 

“I  never  knew  anyone  so  obstinately  unkind.  I could  not 
have  believed  it  possible  in  my  own  daughter.  I thought  you 
had  a good  heart,  Violet;  and  yet  you  do  not  mind  making  me 
intensely  wretched  on  my  wedding  "day.” 

“Why  should  you  be  wretched,  mamma,  because  I prefer  not 
to  be  present  at  your  wedding?  If  I were  there,  I should  be 
like  the  bad  fairy  at  the  princess’s  christening.  I should  look  at 
every  thing  with  a malevolent  eye.” 

Mrs.  Tempest  flung  herself  into  a chair  and  burst  into  tears. 

The  storm  of  grief  which  had  been  brooding  over  her  troubled 
mind  all  day  broke  suddenly  in  a tempest  of  weeping.  She 
could  have  given  no  reason  for  her  distress;  but  all  at  once,  on 
the  eve  of  that  day  which  was  to  give  anew  color  to  her  life, 
panic  seized  her,  and  she  trembled  at  the  stex)  she  was  about  to 
take. 

“You  are  very  cruel  to  me,  Violet,’-  she  sobbed.  “I  am  a 
most  miserable  woman.” 

Violet  knelt  beside  her  and  gently  took  her  hand,  moved  to 
pity  by  wretchedness  so  abject. 

“Dear  mamma,  why  miserable?”  she  asked.  “This  thing 
which  you  are  doing  is  your  own  choice.  Or,  if  it  is  not — if  you 
have  yielded  weakly  to  overpersuasion — it  is  not  too  late  to 
draw  back.  Indeed  it  is  not.  Let  us  run  away  as  soon  as  it  is 
light,  you  and  I,  and  go  off  to  Spain  or  Italy — anywhere,  leav- 
ing a letter  for  Captain  Carmichael  to  say  you  have  changed 
your  mind.  lie  could  not  do  anything  to  us.  You  have  a right 
to  draw  back,  even  at  the  last.” 

“Don’t  talk  nonsense,  Violet,”  cried  Mrs.  Tempest,  peevishly. 
“ Who  said  I had  changed  my  mind?  I am  as  devoted  to  Con- 
rad as  he  is  to  me.  I should  be  a heartless  wretch  if  I could 
throw  him  over  at  the  last  moment.  But  this  has  been  a most 
agitating  day.  Your  unkindness  is  breaking  my  heart.” 

“ Indeed  mamma,  I have  no  wish  to  be  unkind — not  to  you. 
But  my  presence  at  your  wedding  would  be  a lie.  It  would 
seem  to  give  my  approval  to  an  act  I hate.  I can  not  bring  my- 
self to  do  that.” 

“ And  you  will  disgrace  me  by  your  absence.  You  do  not 
care  what  people  may  say  of  me.  ” 

“ Nobody  will  care  about  my  absence.  You  will  be  the  queen 
of  the  day.” 

“Everybody  will  care — everybody  will  talk.  I know  how 
malicious  people  are,  even  one's  most  intimate  friends.  They 


140  VIXEN. 

will  say  my  own  daughter  turned  her  back  upon  me  on  my 
wedding  day.” 

“They  can  hardly  say  that  when  I shall  be  here  in  your 
house.” 

Mrs.  Tempest  went  on  weeping.  She  had  reduced  herself  to  a 
condition  in  which  it  was  much  easier  to  cry  than  to  leave  off 
crying.  The  fountain  of  her  tears  seemed  inexhaustible. 

“A  pretty  object  I shall  look  to-morrow!”  she  murmured, 
plaintively;  and  this  was  all  she  said  for  some  time. 

“Violet  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  sorely  distressed,  sore- 
ly perplexed.  To  see  her  mother’s  grief,  and  to  be  able  to  give 
comfort,  and  to  refuse.  That  must  be  undutiful,  undaughter- 
ly  rebellious.  But  had  not  her  mother  forfeited  all  right  to  her 
obedience  ? Were  not  their  hearts  and  lives  completely  sundered 
by  this  marriage  of  to-morrow  ? To  Violet’s  stronger  nature  it 
seemed  as  if  she  were  the  mother — offended,  outraged,  by  a 
child’s  folly  and  weakness.  There  sat  the  child,  weeping  pite- 
ously, yearning  to  be  forgiven.  It  was  a complete  reversal  of 
their  positions. 

Her  heart  was  touched  by  the  spectacle  of  her  mother’s  weak- 
ness, by  the  mute  appeal  of  those  tears. 

“What  does  it  matter  to  me,  after  all,  w^hether  I am  absent 
or  present?”  she  argued  at  last.  “I  cannot  prevent  this  man 
coming  to  take  possession  of  my  father’s  house.  I cannot  hin- 
der the  outrage  to  my  father’s  memory.  Mamma  has  been  very 
kind  to  me,  and  I have  no  one  else  in  the  world  to  love.” 

She  took  a few  more  turns,  and  then  stopped  by  her  mother’s 
chair. 

“Will  it  really  make  you  happier,  mamma,  if  I am  at  your 
Wedding  ?” 

“ It  wdll  make  me  quite  happy.” 

“ Very  well  then;  it  shall  be  as  you  please.  But,  remember,  I 
shall  look  like  the  wicked  fairy.  1 can’t  help  that.” 

“You  will  look  lovely.  Theodore  has  sent  you  home  the  most 
exquisite  dress.  Come  to  my  room  and  try  it  on,”  said  Mrs. 
Tempest,  drying  her  tears,  and  as  easily  comforted  as  a child 
who  has  obtained  its  desire  by  means  of  copious  weeping. 

“No,  dear  mamma,  not  to-night.  I’m  too  tired,”  sighed 
Violet. 

“Never  mind,  dear.  Theodore  always  fits  you  to  perfection. 
Go  to  bed  at  once,  love.  The  dress  will  be  a surprise  for  you  in 
the  morning.  Good-night,  pet.  You  have  made  me  so  happy.” 

“I  am  glad  of  that,  mamma.” 

“ I wish  you  were  going  to  Scotland  with  us.”  (Vixen  shud- 
dered.) “ I’m  afraid  you’ll  be  dreadfully  dull  here.” 

“ No,  mamma;  I shall  have  the  dogs  and  horses.  I shall  get 
on  very  well.” 

“ You  are  such  a curious  girl.  V/ell,  good-night,  darling. 
You  are  my  ov\m  Violet  again.” 

And  with  this  they  parted,  Mrs.  Tempest  going  back  to  her 
room  with  restored  peace  of  mind. 

She  looked  at  the  reflection  of  her  tear-blotted  face  anxiously 
as  she  paused  before  the  glass. 


VIXEN. 


141 


Pm  afraid  I shall  look  an  object  to-morov/,”  she  said,  “ The 
morning  sunshine  is  so  searching.” 


CHAPTEE  XX. 

THE  VOW  IS  VOWED. 

Only  a chosen  few  had  been  bidden  to  Mrs.  Tempest’s  wed- 
ding. She  had  told  all  her  friends  that  she  meant  everything  to 
be  done  very  quietly. 

‘‘There  is  so  much  that  is  saddening  in  my  position,”  she 
said,  pensively.  But  she  was  resolved  that  those  guests  who 
were  asked  to  lend  their  countenance  to  her  espousals  should  be 
the  very  best  people. 

Lord  and  Lady  Ellangowan  had  been  asked,  and  had  accepted, 
and  their  presence  alone  would  lend  dignity  to  the  occasion. 
Colonel  and  Mrs.  Carteret,  from  Copse  Hall,  the  Chopnells,  of 
Chopnell  Park,  and  about  half  a dozen  other  representative  land- 
owners  and  commoners  made  up  the  list. 

“ There  is  such  a satisfaction  in  knowing  they  are  all  the  best 
people,”  Mrs.  Tempest  said  to  Captain  Carmichael,  when  they 
went  over  the  list  together. 

His  own  friends  v/ere  but  two.  Major  Pontorson,  his  best  man, 
and  a clerical  cousin,  with  a portly  figure  and  a port-winey  nose, 
who  was  to  assist  Mr.  Scobel  in  the  marriage  service. 

It  was  a very  pretty  w^edding,  the  neighborhood  declared 
unanimously,  despite  tlie  absence  of  that  most  attractive  feature 
in  more  youthful  bridals — a string  of  girlish  bride-maids.  The 
little  church  at  Beechdale  was  a bower  of  summer  flowers.  The 
Abbey  House  conservatories  had  been  emptied;  the  Ellaugo wans 
had  sent  a wagon-load  of  ferns  and  exotics.  The  atmosphere 
was  heavy  with  the  scent  of  yellow  roses  and  stephanotis. 

Violet  stood  among  the  guests  pale  as  marble,  no  gleam  of 
color  on  her  cheeks  except  the  wavering  hues  reflected  from  the 
painted  windows  in  the  low  Gothic  chancel,  the  ruddy  gold  of 
her  hair  shining  under  the  Vandyke  hat  with  its  sweeping 
feather.  She  was  the  loveliest  thing  in  that  crowded  church, 
whither  people  had  come  from  ten  miles  off  to  see  Squire  Tem- 
pest’s widow  married;  but  she  had  a spectral  look  in  the  faint 
light  of  the  chancel,  and  seemed  as  strange  an  image  at  this 
wedding  as  the  ghost  of  Lon  Eamiro  at  Donna  Clara’s  bridal 
dance. 

Violet  did  not  look  like  the  malevolent  fairy  in  the  old  story, 
but  she  had  a look  and  air  which  told  every  one  that  this  mar- 
riage was  distasteful  to  her. 

"When  all  was  over,  and  the  register  had  been  signed  in  the 
vestry.  Captain  Carmichael  came  up  to  her,  with  both  hands  ex- 
tended, before  all  the  company. 

“ My  dear  Violet,  I am  your  father  now,”  he  said.  <<  You  shall 
not  find  me  wanting  in  my  duty.” 

She  drew  back  involuntarily;  and  then,  seeing  herself  the 
focus  of  so  many  eyes,  suffered  him  to  touch  the  tips  of  her 
fingers. 

“ You  are  very  kind,”  she  sj  lid.  “A  daughter  can  have  but 


143 


VIXEN. 


one  father,  and  mine  is  dead.  I hope  yon  will  be  a good  hus- 
band to  my  mother.  That  is  all  I can  desire  of  you.” 

All  the  best  people  heard  this  speech,  which  was  spoken  de- 
liberately, in  a low,  clear  voice,  and  they  decided  inwardly  that 
whatever  kind  of  wife  Captain  Carmichael  might  have  won  for 
himself,  he  had  found  his  match  in  his  step-daughter. 

Now  came  the  ride  to  the  Abbey  House,  which  had  put  on  a 
festive  air,  and  where  smartly  dressed  servants  were  lending 
their  smiles  to  a day  which  they  all  felt  to  be  the  end  of  a peace- 
ful and  comfortable  era,  and  the  beginning  of  an  age  of  uncer- 
tainty. It  was  hke  that  day  at  Versailles  when  the  Third  Estate 
adjourned  to  the  Tennis  Court,  and  the  French  Revolution  be- 
gan. People  smiled,  and  were  pleased  at  the  new  movement 
and  expectancy  in  their  lives,  knowing  not  what  was  coming. 

“We  are  bound  to  be  livelier,  anyhow,  with  a military  master,” 
said  Pauhne. 

“A  little  more  company  in  the  house  wouldn’t  come  amiss, 
certainly,”  said  Mrs.  Trimmer. 

“I  should  like  to  see  our  Champagne  cellar  better  stocked,” 
remarked  Forbes,  the  butler.  “We’re  behmd  the  times  in  our 
sparkling  wines.” 

Captain  Carmichael  entered  the  old  oak-paneled  hall  with  his 
v/ife  on  his  arm,  and  felt  himself  master  of  such  a house  as  a 
man  might  dream  of  all  his  life  and  never  attain.  Money  could 
not  have  bought  it.  Taste  could  not  have  created  it.  The  mel- 
lowing hand  of  time,  the  birth  and  death  of  many  generations, 
had  made  it  beautiful. 

The  wedding  breakfast  was  as  other  wedding  feasts.  People 
ate  and  drank  and  made  believe  to  be  intensely  glad,  and  drank 
more  sparkling  wine  than  was  good  for  them  at  that  abnormal 
hour,  and  began  to  feel  sleepy  before  the  speeches,  brief  as  they 
were,  had  come  to  an  end.  The  August  sun  shone  in  upon  the 
banquet,  the  creams  and  jellies  languished  and  collapsed  in  the 
sultry  air.  The  wedding  cake  was  felt  to  be  a nuisance.  The 
cracker  bonbons  exploded  faintly  in  the  languid  hands  of  the 
younger  guests,  and  those  ridiculous  mottoes,  which  could  hard- 
ly amuse  any  one  out  of  Earlswood  Asylum,  were  looked  at  a 
shade  more  contemptuously  than  usual.  The  wreath er  was  too 
warm  for  enthusiasm.  And  Violet’s  pale  set  face  was  almost  as 
disheartening  as  the  skeleton  at  an  Egyptian  banquet.  When 
Mrs.  Tempest  retired  to  put  on  her  traveling  dress  Violet  went 
w’ith  her — a filial  attention  the  mother  had  in  nowise  expected. 

“ Dear  girl,”  she  said,  squeezing  her  daughter’s  hand,  “ to-day 
is  not  to  make  the  slightest  difference.” 

“I  hope  not,  mamma,”  answered  Violet,  gravely;  “but  one 
can  never  tell  what  is  in  the  future.  God  grant  you  may  be 
happy !” 

“ I’m  sure  it  will  be  my  own  fault  if  I am  not  happy  with  Con- 
rad, ’ said  the  wife  of  an  hour;  “and,  oh,  Violet,  my  constant 
prayer  will  be  to  see  you  more  attached  to  liim.” 

Violet  made  no  reply,  and  here  happily  Pauline  brought  the 
fawn-cx)lored  traveling  dress,  embroidered  with  poppies  and 
corn-flowers  in  their  natural  colors,  after  the  style  of  South 


VIXEN. 


143 


Kensington — a dress  so  distractingly  lovely  that  it  naturally  put 
an  end  to  serious  conversation.  The  whole  costume  had  been 
caretully  thought  out,  a fawn-colored  parasol,  edged  with 
ostrich  feathers,  a fawn-<X'lored  bonnet,  fawn-colored  Hes- 
sian boots,  fawn-colored  Swedish  gloves  with  ten  buttons — all 
prepared  for  the  editication  of  railway  guards  and  porters,  and 
Scotch  innkeepers  and  their  valetaille. 

Verily,  there  are  some  games  which  seem  hardly  worth  the 
candle  that  lights  the  players.  And  there  was  once  upon  a time 
an  eccentric  nobleman  who  was  accounted  maddest  in  that  he 
made  his  wife  dress  herself  from  head  to  foot  in  one  color. 
Other  times,  other  manners. 

Violet  stayed  with  her  mother  to  the  last,  receiving  the  last  em- 
brace— a fond  and  tearful  one — and  watched  the  carriage  drive 
away  from  the  porch  amidst  a shower  of  rice.  And  then  all  was 
over.  The  best  people  were  bidding  her  a kindly  good-bye.  Car- 
riages drove  up  quickly,  and  in  a quarter  of  an  hour  every  one 
was  gone  except  the  vicar  and  his  wife.  Vixen  found  herself 
standing  between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scobel,  looking  blankly  at  the 
old  hearth,  where  an  artistic  group  of  ferns  and  scarlet  gerani- 
ums replaced  the  friendly  winter  tire. 

Come  and  spend  the  evening  with  us,  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Sco- 
bel, kindly;  it  will  be  so  lonely  for  you  here.’’ 

But  Violet  pleaded  a headache — a plea  which  was  confirmed 
by  her  pale  cheeks  and  the  dark  rings  round  her  eyes. 

“I  shall  be  better  at  home,”  she  said.  “ ITl  come  and  see  you 
in  a day  or  two,  if  I may.” 

“ Come  whenever  you  like,  dear.  I wish  you  would  come  and 
stay  with  us  altogether.  Ignatius  and  have  been  so  pleased 
with  your  conduct  to-day,  and  we  have  felt  for  you  deeply,  know- 
ing what  a conquest  you  have  made  over  yourself.” 

The  Reverend  Ignatius  murmured  his  acquiescence. 

“Poor  mammal”  sighed  Violet.  “I  am  afraid  I have  been 
very  unkind.” 

And  then  she  looked  absently  round  the  old  familiar  hall,  and 
her  eye  lighted  on  the  squire’s  favorite  chair,  which  still  stood 
in  its  place  by  the  hearth.  Her  eyes  tilled  with  sudden  tears. 
She  fancied  she  could  see  a shadowy  figure  sitting  there.  The 
squire  in  his  red  coat,  his  long  hunting  whip  across  his  knee,  his 
honest  loving  face  smiling  at  her. 

She  squeezed  Mrs.  Scobel’s  friendly  hand,  bade  her  and  the 
vicar  a hurried  good-bye,  and  ran  out  of  tlie  room,  leaving  them 
looking  after  her  pityingly. 

“Poor  girl,”  said  the  vicar’s  wife,  “ how  keenly  she  feels  it!” 

“Ah!”  sighed  the  vicar,  “ I have  never  been  in  favor  of  second 
marriages.  The  widow  is  happy  if  she  so  abide,  after  my  iudg- 
ment,  as  St,  Paul  says.” 

Vixen  called  Argus  and  went  up  to  her  room,  followed  by 
that  faithful  companion.  When  she  had  shut  and  locked  the 
door,  she  flung  herself  on  the  ground,  regardless  of  Madame 
Theodore’s  masterpiece,  and  clasped  her  arms  round  the  dog’s 
thick  neck,  and  buried  her  face  in  his  soft  hide. 


144 


VIXEN. 


“Oh,  Argus,  I have  not  a friend  in  the  world  but  you!”  she 
sobbed. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

WAR  TO  THE  KNIFE. 

A STRANGE  stillness  came  upon  the  Abbey  House  after  Mrs. 
Tempest’s  wedding.  Violet  received  a few  invitations  and  morn- 
ing calls  from  friends  who  pitied  her  solitude;  but  the  best  peo- 
ple were  for  the  most  part  away  from  home  in  August  and  Sep- 
tember; some  no  farther  than  Bournemouth  or  Weymouth; 
others  roaming  the  mountainous  districts  of  Europe  in  searcli  of 
the  picturesque  or  the  fashionable. 

Violet  did  not  want  society.  She  made  excuses  for  refusing 
all  invitations.  Tlie  solitude  of  her  life  did  not  afflict  her.  If  it 
could  have  continued  forever,  if  Captain  Carmichael  and  her 
mother  could  have  wandered  about  the  earth,  and  left  her  in 
peaceful  possession  of  the  Abbey  House,  with  tlie  old  servants, 
old  horses,  old  dogs,  all  things  undisturbed  as  in  her  father  s 
time,  she  would  have  been  happy.  It  was  the  idea  of  change,  a 
new  and  upstart  master  in  her  father’s  place,  which  tortured  her. 
Any  delay  which  kept  off  that  evil  hour  was  a blessed  relief;  but 
alas!  the  evil  hour  was  coming;  it  was  close  at  hand,  inevitable. 
That  autumn  proved  exceptionally  fine.  Scotland  cast  aside 
her  mantle  of  mist  and  cloud,  and  dressed  herself  in  sunshine. 
The  Trossachs  blossomed  as  the  rose.  Gloomy  gray  glens  and 
mountains  put  on  an  appearance  of  light.  Mrs.  Tempest  wrote 
her  daughter  rapturous  letters  about  the  tour. 

“We  move  about  very  slowly,”  she  said,  “ so  as  not  to  fatigue 
me.  Conrad’s  attention  is  more  than  words  can  describe.  I car 
see  that  even  the  waiters  are  touched  by  it.  He  telegraphs  be- 
forehand to  all  the  hotels,  so  that  we  have  always  the  best  rooms. 
He  thinks  nothing  too  good  for  me.  It  is  quite  saddening  to  see 
a herd  of  travelers  sent  away  houseless  every  evening.  The 
fine  weather  is  bringing  crowds  to  the  Highlands.  We  could  not 
haveg  traveled  at  a more  favorable  time.  We  have  bad  ^'nly 
a few  showers,  but  in  one,  on  Loch  Katrine,  my  poor  fawn- 
colored  dress  suffered.  The  scarlet  of  the  poppies  ran  ’Tito  the 
blue  of  the  corn-flowers.  Is  it  not  a pity  ? I was  quite  uncon- 
scious of  what  was  going  on  at  the  time;  and  afterT'ard,  when  I 
discovered  it,  I could  have  shed  tears. 

“I  hope  when  you  marr\%  darling,  you  will  ?^me  to  Scotland 
for  ycur  honeymoon.  The  mountains  seem  to  apixjal  to  one’s 
highest  feelings.  There  are  ponies,  too,  for  che  ascent,  which  is 
a great  comfort  if  one  is  wearing  pretty  boots.  And  you  know, 
Violet,  my  idea  that  a woman  should  be  essentially  feminine 
in  every  detail.  I never  could  bring  myself  to  wear  the  horrid 
clump  soles  which  some  women  delight  in.  They  seem  to  me 
to  indicate  that  strong-minded  and  masculine  character 
which  I detest.  Such  women  would  Jwant  the  suffrage,  and  to 
have  the  learned  professions  thrown  open  to  them.  I meet  ladiee 
‘—or,  at  least,  persons  calling  themselves  such — in  horrid  water- 


viXEy. 


145 


proof  costumes  and  with  coarse  cloth  hats.  Hideousness  could 
go  no  further.  And  though  I regret  the  wreck  of  my  fawmcclor, 
I can  but  remember  with  satisfaction  what  Theodore  always 
says  to  me  when  she  shows  me  one  of  her  chefs-d’oeuvre:  ‘ Mrs. 
Tempest,  it  is  a dress  fit  for  a lady.’  There  are  scandalous 
wretches  who  declare  that  Theodore  began  life  as  kitchen-maid 
in  an  Irish  inn,  but  I for  one,  will  never  believe  it.  Such  taste 
as  hers  indicates  a refined  progeniture.” 

With  such  letters  as  these  did  Mrs.  Carmichael  comfort  her  ab- 
sent daughter.  Vixen  replied  as  best  she  might,  with  scraps  of 
news  about  the  neighbors,  rich  and  poor,  the  dogs,  horses,  and 
garden.  It  was  hateful  to  her  to  have  to  direct  her  letters  to 
Mrs.  Carmichael. 

The  days  went  on.  Vixen  rode  from  early  morning  till  noon, 
and  rambled  in  the  forest  for  the  best  part  of  the  afternoon. 
She  used  to  take  her  books  there,  and  sit  for  hours  reading  on  a 
mossy  bank  under  one  of  the  boughy  beaches,  with  Argus  at 
her  feet.  The  dog  was  company  enough  for  her.  She  wanted 
no  one  better.  At  home,  the  old  servants  were  more  or  less  friends 
— their  faces  always  pleasant  to  see.  Some  of  them  had  lived 
with  her  grandfather;  most  of  them  had  served  her  father  from 
the  time  he  had  inherited  the  estate.  The  squire  had  been  the 
most  conservative  and  indulgent  of  masters,  always  liking  to 
see  the  old  faces.  The  butler  was  old,  and  even  on  his  underling’s 
bullet-head  the  gray  hairs  were  beginning  to  show.  Mrs.  Trim- 
mer was  at  least  sixty,  and  had  been  getting  annually  bulkiv  r 
for  the  last  twenty  years.  The  kitchen-maid  was  a comfortable- 
looking person  of  forty.  There  was  an  atmosphere  of  domestic 
peace  in  the  offices  of  tlie  Abbey  House  which  made  everybody 
fat.  It  was  only  by  watchfulness  and  tight  lacing  that  Pauline 
preserved  to  herself  that  grace  of  outline  which  she  spoke  of  in 
a general  way  as  “ figure.” 

“And  what  a mite  of  a waist  I had  when  I first  went  out  to 
service!”  she  would  say,  pathetically. 

But  Pauline  was  now  in  Scotland,  harassed  by  unceasing  cares 
about  traveling  bags,  bonnet  boxes,  and  extra  wraps,  and  un- 
dervaluing Ben -Nevis  as  not  worth  half  the  trouble  that  was 
taken  to  go  and  look  at  him. 

The  gardeners  were  gray-headed,  and  remembered  potting  the 
first  fuchsia  slips  that  ever  came  to  the  Forest.  They  had  no  gusto 
for  new  fangled  ideas  about  cordon  fruit  trees  or  root  prun- 
ing. Tliey  liked  to  go  their  own  way,  as  their  fathers  and 
grandfathers  had  done  before  them,  and,  with  unlimited  sup- 
plies of  manure,  they  were  able  to  produce  excellent  cucumbers 
by  the  first  of  May,  or  a fair  dish  of  as]i  ^^ragus  by  about  the  same 
time.  If  their  produce  was  late,  it  was  because  nature  went 
against  them.  They  could  not  command  the  winds,  or  tell  the  sun 
that  he  must  shine.  The  gardens  at  the  Abbey  House  were  beau- 
tiful, but  nature  had  done  more  for  them  than  the  squire’s  old 
gardeners.  The  same  rose-trees  budded  and  bloomed  year  after 
3'ear;  the  same  rhododendrons  and  azaleas  opened  their  big  bunch- 
es of  bloom.  Eden  could  have  hardly  owed  less  to  culture.  The 
noble  old  cedars,  the  mediaeval  yews,  needed  no  gardener’s  hand 


146 


VIXEN. 


There  was  a good  deal  of  weeding  and  mowing  and  rolling  done 
from  week’s  end  to  week’s  end,  and  the  borders  were  beautified 
by  banks  of  geranium  and  golden  calceolaria,  and  a few  other 
old-fasliioned  fiowers;  but  scientific  horticulture  there  was  none. 
A few  alterations  had  been  begun  under  Captain  Carmichael’s 
directions,  but  the  work  languished  in  his  absence. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  September,  and  the  travelers  were  ex- 
pected to  return  within  a few  days,  the  exact  date  of  their  ar- 
rival not  being  announced.  The  weather  was  glorious,  warmer 
than  it  had  been  all  through  the  summer;  and  Vixen  spent  her 
life  out-of-doors.  Sad  thoughts  haunced  her  less  cruelly  in 
the  great  wood.  There  was  a brightness  and  life  in  "the 
forest  which  cheered  her.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  Argus’s  enjoy- 
ment of  the  fair  weather;  his  wild  rushes  in  among  the  under- 
wood; his  pursuit  of  invisible  vermin  under  the  thick  holly 
bushes,  the  brambles  and  bracken;  his  rapturous  rolling  in  the 
dewy  grass,  where  he  fiung  himself  at  full  length,  and  rolled 
over  and  over,  and  leaped  as  if  he  had  been  reveling  in  a bath 
of  freshest  water  ; pleasant  to  see  him  race  up  to  a serious- mind- 
ed pig,  and  scrutinize  that  stolid  animal  closely,  and  then  leave 
him  to  his  sordid  researches  after  edible  roots  with  open  con- 
tempt, as  who  should  say,  “ Can  the  same  scheme  of  creation 
include  me  and  that  vulgar  brute  ?” 

All  things  had  been  sefc  in  order  for  the  return  of  the  newly- 
married  couple.  Mrs.  Trimmer  had  her  dinner  ready  to  be  put 
in  hand  at  a moment’s  notice.  Violet  felt  that  the  end  of  her 
peaceful  life  was  very  near.  How  would  she  bear  the  change? 
How  would  she  be  able  to  behave  herself  decently?  Well,  she 
would  try  her  best.  Heaven  giving  her  strength.  That  was  her 
last  resolve.  She  would  not  make  the  poor,  frivolous  mother 
unhappy. 

“Forgive  me,  beloved  father,  if  I am  civil  to  the  usurper.” 
she  said.  “ It  will  be  for  my  mother’s  sake.  You  were  - always 
tender  and  indulgent  to  her;  you  would  not  like  to  see  her  un- 
happy.” 

These  were  Vixen’s  thoughts  one  bright  September  morning, 
as  she  sat  at  her  lonely  little  breakfast  table  in  the  sunny  window 
of  her  den,  with  Argus  by  her  side,  intensely  watchful  of  every 
morsel  of  bread  and  butter  she  ate,  though  he  had  already  been 
accommodated  with  half  the  loaf. 

She  was  more  amiably  disposed  than  usual  this  morning.  She 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  make  the  best  of  a painful  position. 

“ I shall  always  hate  him,”  she  told  herself,  meaning  Captain 
Carmichael;  “ but  I will  begin  a career  of  Christian-like  hypoc- 
risy, and  try  to  make  other  people  believe  that  I like  him.  No, 
Argus,”  as  the  big  paw  tugged  her  arm  pleadingly — “ no;  now, 
really,  this  is  sheer  greadiness.  You  can’t  be  hungry.” 

A piteous  whine,  as  of  a dog  on  the  brink  of  starvation,  seemed 
to  gainsay  her.  Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  the  middle-aged 
footman  entered. 

“Oh,  if  you  please,  miss.  Bates  says  would  you  like  to  see 
Bullfinch  ?” 


VIXEN. 


147 


“ To  see  Bullfincb  echoed  Vixen.  ‘‘  What’s  the  matter?  Is 
he  ill  ? Is  he  hurt  ?” 

“ No  miss;  but  Bates  thought  as  how  maybe  you’d  like  to  see 
un  before  he  goes  away.  He’s  sold.” 

Vixen  turaed  very  pale.  She  started  up  and  stood  for  a few 
moments  silent,  with  her  strong  young  hands  clinched,  just  as 
she  gripped  them  on  the  reins  sometimes  when  Arion  was  run- 
ning away  with  her  and  there  were  bogs  in  front. 

“ I’ll  come,”  she  said,  in  a half -suffocated  voice. 

“ He  has  sold  my  father’s  horse,  after  all,”  she  said  to  herself, 
as  she  went  toward  the  stables.  “ Then  I shall  hate  him  openly 
all  my  life.  Yes,  everybody  shall  know  that  I hate  him.” 

She  found  the  stables  in  some  commotion.  There  were  two 
strangers,  groomy-lookiog  men,  standing  in  front  of  Bullfinch’s 
loose  box,  and  all  the  stable-men  bad  come  out  of  their  various 
holes,  and  were  standing  about. 

Bates  looked  grave  and  indignant. 

‘‘  There  isn’t  a finer  horse  in  the  county,”  he  muttered;  “ it’s 
a shame  to  send  him  out  of  it.” 

Vixen  walked  straight  up  to  the  strange  men,  who  touched 
their  caps,  and  looked  at  her  admiringly;  her  dark  blue  cloth 
dress  fitted  her  like  a riding-habit,  her  long  white  throat  was 
bare,  her  linen  collar  tied  loosely  with  a black  ribbon,  her  chest- 
nut hair  wound  into  a crown  of  plaits  at  the  top  of  her  bead. 
The  severe  simplicity  of  her  dress  set  off  her  I resb  young  beauty. 

“She’s  the  prettiest  chestnut  filly  I’ve  seen  for  a long  time,” 
one  of  the  grooms  said  of  her  afterward.  “Thorough-bred  to 
the  tips  of  her  ears.” 

“Who  has  bought  the  horse?”  she  asked,  authoritatively. 

“My  master.  Lord  Mallow,  miss,”  answered  the  superior  of 
the  men.  “You  needn’t  be  anxious  about  him;  he’ll  have  a rare 
good  home.” 

“ V/ill  you  let  me  see  the  order  for  taking  him  away?” 

“ Your  groom  has  got  it,  miss.” 

Bates  showed  her  a sheet  of  paper  on  which  Captain  Car- 
michael had  written: 


“ Trossachs  Hotel,  September^  1, 1870. 
“The  bay  horse  Bullfinch  is  to  be  delivered,  with  clothing, 
etc.,  to  Lord  Mallow’s  groom. 

“C.  Carmichael.” 


Vixen  perused  this  paper  with  a countenance  full  of  sup- 
^ pressed  rage= 

“Does  your  master  give  much  money  for  this  horse?”  she 
asked,  turning  to  the  strange  groom. 

“ I haven’t  heard  how  much,  miss.”  Of  course  the  man  knew 
the  sum  to  a penny.  “ But  I believe  it’s  a tidyish  lot.” 

“I  don’t  suppose  I have  as  much  money  in  the  world,”  said 
Vixen,  “ or  I’d  buy  my  father’s  horse  of  Captain  Carmichael, 
since  he  is  so  badly  in  want  of  money,  and  keep  him  at  a farm.” 

“ I bog  your  pardon,  miss,”  said  the  groom,  “ but  the  boss  is 
sold.  ^ My  master  has  paid  his  money.  He  is  a friend  of  Captain 
Carmichael’s.  They  met  somewhere  in  Scotland  the  other  day, 


148 


VIXEN. 


and  my  lord  bought  the  hoss  on  hearsay;  and  I must  say  t don’t 
think  he’ll  be  disappointed  in  him.” 

“ Where  are  you  going  to  take  him?” 

“Well,  it’s  rather  an  awkward  journey  across  country.  We’re 
going  to  Melton.  My  lord  is  going  to  hunt  the  hoss  in  Octol^r, 
if  he  turns  out  to  my  lord’s  satisfaction.” 

“ You  are  going  to  take  him  by  rail?” 

“Yes,  miss.” 

“ He  has  never  been  by  rail  in  his  life.  It  will  kill  him,”  cried 
Vixen,  alarmed. 

“ Oh  no,  it  won’t,  miss.  Don’t  be  frightened  about  him.  We 
shall  have  a padded  box,  and  everything  tip-top.  He’ll  be  as 
snug  and  as  tight  as  a sardine  in  its  case.  We’ll  get  him  to 
Leicestershire  as  fresh  as  paint.” 

Vixen  went  into  the  loose  box  where  Bullfinch,  all  uncon- 
scious of  his  fate,  was  idly  munching  a mouthful  of  upland 
meadow  bay.  She  pulled  down  his  noble  head  and  laid  her 
cheek  against  his  broad  forehead,  and  let  her  tears  rain  on  him 
unheeded.  There  was  no  one  to  see  her  in  that  dusky  loose 
box.  The  grooms  were  clustered  at  the  stable  door,  talking  to- 
gether. She  was  free  to  linger  over  her  parting  with  the  horse 
that  her  father  had  loved.  She  wound  her  arms  about  his 
arched  neck,  and  let  him  lick  h(}r  hand. 

“Oh,  Bullfinch,  have  you  a memory?  Will  you  be  sorry  to 
find  yourself  in  a strange  stable?’’  she  asked,  looking  into  the 
animal’s  full  soft  eyes  with  a pathetic  earnestness  in  her  own. 

She  dried  her  tears  presently;  she  was  not  going  to  make  her- 
self a spectacle  for  the  scornful  pity  of  stablemen.  She  came 
out  of  the  loose  box  with  a serene  countenance,  and  went  up 
to  Lord  Mallow’s  groom,  “ Please  be  kind  to  him,”  she  said, 
cr  upping  a sovereign  into  the  man’s  ready  hand. 

“ No  fear  of  that,  miss,”  he  said.  “ There  are  very  few  Chris- 
tians that  have  as  good  a time  of  it  as  our  ’osses.” 

That  sovereign,  taken  in  conjunction  with  the  donor’s  beauty, 
quite  vanquished  Lord  Mallow’s  stud  groom,  and  very  nearly 
boiiglit  Violet  Tempest  a coronet. 

Bullfinch  was  led  out  presently,  looking  like  a king;  but  Vio- 
let did  not  stop  to  see  him  go  away.  She  could  hardly  have 
borne  that.  She  ran  back  to  the  house,  put  on  her  hat  and 
jacket,  called  Argus,  and  set  out  for  along  ramble,  to  walk  down,'' 
if  possible,  the  angry  devil  within  her. 

No,  tliis  she  would  never  forgive — this  sale  of  her  father’s 
favorite  horse.  It  was  as  if  some  creature  of  her  own  fiesh  and 
blood  had  been  sold  into  slavery.  Her  mother  was  rich,  would 
squander  hundreds  on  fine  dresses,  and  would  allow  her  dead 
husband’s  horse  to  be  sold! 

“ Is  Captain  Carmichael  such  a tyrant  that  mamma  can  not  pre- 
vent this  shameful  thing  ?”  she  asked  herself.  “ She  talks  about 
his  a ttention,  his  devotion,  as  if  he  were  at  her  feet,  and  yet  she 
suffers  him  to  disgrace  her  by  this  unparalleled  meanness!” 


VIXEN. 


149 


CHAPTEK  XXIT. 

AT  THE  KENNELS. 

It  was  a fresh,  sunny  morning,  a soft  west  wind  blowing  up 
all  the  sweetness  of  the  woods  and  leas.  The  dewy  grass;  the 
year’s  pigs,  grown  to  the  hobbledehoy  stage  of  existence,  were 
grubbing  alK)ut  contentedly  among  the  furze  bushes;  by  the 
road-side  a matronly  sow  lay  stretched  flat  upon  her  side  in  the 
sunshine,  just  where  carriage  wheels  must  pass  over  her  were 
carriages  frequent  in  those  parts. 

Even  the  brightness  of  the  morning  had  no  charm  for  Vixen. 
There  was  no  delight  for  her  in  the  green  solemnity  of  the  forest 
glades,  w^here  the  beechen  pillars  led  the  eye  away  into  innumer- 
able vistas,  each  grandly  mysterious  as  a cathedral  aisle.  The 
sun  shot  golden  arrows  through  dark  boughs,  patching  the  moss 
with  translucent  lights,  vivid  and  clear  as  the  luster  of  emeralds. 
The  gentle  plash  of  the  forest  sti*eam  rippling  over  its  pebbly  bed 
made  a tender  music  that  was  wont  to  seem  passing  sweet  to 
Violet  TemiDest’s  ear.  To-day  she  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing. 
Her  brain  was  clouded  with  angry  thoughts. 

She  left  the  forest  by  and  by,  following  one  of  the  familiar 
cart  tracks,  and  came  out  into  the  peaceful  little  colony  of 
Beechdale,  where  it  was  a chance  if  the  noonday  traveler  saw 
anything  alive  except  a youthful  family  of  pigs  enjoying  an 
oasis  of  mud  in  a dry  land,  or  an  intrusive  dog  rushing  out  of  a 
cottage  to  salute  the  wayfarer  with  an  inquiring  bark.  The 
children  were  still  in  school.  The  hum  of  their  voices  was 
wafted  from  the  open  windows.  The  church  door  stood  open. 
The  village  graves  upon  the  sunward-fronting  slope  were  bright 
•with  common  flowers,  the  dead  lying  with  their  feet  to  the  west, 
ready  to  stand  up  and  see  their  Lord  at  the  resurrection  morn- 
ing. 

Vixen  hurried  through  the  little  village,  not  wanting  to  see 
Mrs.  Scobel  or  any  one  she  knew  this  morning.  There  was  a 
long  rustic  lane  opposite  the  church  that  led  straight  to  the  ken- 
nels. 

“ I will  go  and  see  the  fox-hounds,”  said  Vixen.  “They  are 
true  and  faithful.  But  perhaps  all  those  I love  best  have  been 
sold  or  are  dead  by  this  time.” 

It  seemed  to  her  ages  since  she  had  been  to  the  kennels  with 
her  father.  It  had  been  his  favorite  walk,  out  of  the  hunting 
season,  and  he  had  rarely  suffered  a week  to  pass  without  mak- 
ing his  visit  of  inspection.  Since  her  return  Violet  had  scarcely 
avoided  the  well-known  spot;  but  to-day,  out  of  the  very  bitter- 
ness of  her  heart,  came  a desire  to  renew  past  associations. 
Bullfinch  was  gone  forever,  but  the  hounds  at  least  remained: 
and  her  father  had  loved  them  almost  as  well  as  he  had  loved 
Bullflnch. 

Nothing  was  changed  at  the  kennels.  The  same  feeder,  in 
corduroy  and  fustian,  came  out  of  the  cooking -house  when 
Vixen  opened  the  five-barred  gate.  The  same  groom  was  loung- 
ing in  front  of  the  stables  where  the  horses  were  kept  for  the 


150 


VIXEN. 


huntsmen  and  his  underlings.  The  whole  place  had  the  same 
slumberous  out-of -season  look  she  remembered  so  well  in  the 
days  when  hunting  was  over. 

The  men  touched  their  caps  to  Miss  Tempest  as  she  passed 
them.  She  went  straight  to  the  kennels.  There  were  the  three 
wooden  doors,  opening  into  three  square  stone-paved  yards, 
each  door  provide  with  a small  round  eye-hole,  through  which 
the  authorities  might  scrutinize  the  assembly  within.  A loud 
yelping  arose  as  Vixen’s  footsteps  drew  near.  Then  there  were 
frantic  snufiings  under  the  doors,  and  a general  agitation.  She 
looked  through  the  little  eye-hole  into  the  middle  yard.  Yes, 
there  they  were,  fourteen  or  fifteen  couples,  tumultuously  ex- 
cited, as  if  they  knew  she  was  there — white  and  black-and-tan, 
pointed  noses,  beautiful  intelligent  eyes,  bright  tan  spots  upon 
marked  brows,  some  with  a streak  of  white  running  down  the 
long  sharp  noses,  some  heavy  in  the  jowl,  some  with  muzzles 
sharp  as  a greyhound’s,  thirty  tails  erect  and  agitated. 

The  feeder  remembered  Miss  Tempest  perfectly,  though  it  was 
more  than  three  years  since  her  last  visit. 

“ Would  yon  like  to  go  in  and  see  ’em,  miss?”  he  said. 

“ Yes,  if  vou  please,  Dawson.  You  have  Gtauntlet  still,  I see. 
That  is  Gauntlet,  isn’t  it?  And  Dart,  and  Juno,  and  Einglet, 
and  Artful,” 

‘‘Yes,  miss.  There  ain’t  many  gone  since  you  was  here.  But 
there’s  a lot  o’  poppies.  You’d  like  to  see  the  poppies,  wouldn’t 
you,  miss  ? They  be  in  the  next  kennel,  if  you’ll  just  wait  five 
minutes.” 

Cleanliness  was  tlie  order  of  the  day  at  the  kennels,  but  to  do  the 
late  master’s  daughter  more  honor,  Dawson,  the  feeder,  called  a 
bright-looking  lad,  his  subordinate,  and  divers  pails  of  water 
were  fetched,  and  the  three  little  yards  washed  out  vigorously 
before  Miss  Tempest  was  invited  to  enter.  When  she  did  go  in, 
the  yard  was  empty  and  clean  as  a new  pin.  The  hounds  liad 
been  sent  into  their  house,  where  they  were  all  grouped  pictur- 
esquely bn  a bench  littered  with  straw,  looking  as  gmve  as  a 
human  parliament,  and  much  wiser.  Nothing  could  be  more 
beautiful  than  their  attitudes,  or  more  intelligent  than  their 
countenances. 

Vixen  looked  in  at  them  through  the  barred  window. 

“ Dear  things,”  she  exclaimed;  “they  are  as  lovely  as  ever. 
How  fond  papa  was  of  them?’ 

And  then  the  kennel  huntsman,  who  had  appeared  on  the 
scene  by  this  time,  opened  the  door  and  smacked  liis  whip:  and 
the  fourteen  couple  came  leaping  helter-skelter  out  into  the  little 
3^ard,  and  made  a rush  at  Vixen,  and  surrounded  her,  and 
fawned  upon  her,  and  caressed  her  as  if  their  recognition  of  her 
after  long  years  was  perfect,  and  as  if  they  had  been  breaking 
tlieir  hearts  for  her  in  the  interval.  Perhaps  they  would  have 
been  just  as  affectionate  to  the  next  comer,  having  a large  sur- 
plus stock  of  love  always  on  hand  ready  to  be  lavished  on  tlie 
human  race;  but  Vixen  took  these  demonstrations  as  expressive 
of  a peculiar  attachment,  and  was  moved  to  tears  by  the  warmth 
of  this  canine  greeting. 


VIXEK  151 

‘‘Thank  God!  there  are  some  living  things  that  love  me,”  sne 
exclaimed.  ! 

“Something  that  loves  yon!”  cried  a voice  from  the  door  of 
the  yard.  “Does  not  everything  noble  or  v?-orthy  love  you  as 
it  loves  all  that  is  beautiful  ?” 

Turning  quickly,  with  a scared  look,  Violet  saw  Roderick 
Vawdrey  standing  in  the  doorway. 

He  stood  quietly  watching  her,  his  dark  eyes  softened  with  a 
look  of  tender  admiration.  There  could  hardly  have  been  a 
prettier  picture  than  the  tall  girlish  figure  and  bright  chestnut 
head,  the  fair  face  bending  over  the  upturned  noses  of  the 
hounds  as  they  clustered  round  her,  some  standing  up  with 
their  strong  white  paws  upon  her  shoulder,  some  nestling  at 
her  knees.  Her  hat  had  fallen  off,  and  was  being  trampled 
under  a multitude  of  restless  feet. 

Rorie  came  into  the  little  yard.  The  huntsman  cracked  his 
whip,  and  the  hounds  went  tumbling  one  over  the  other  into 
their  house,  where  thej^  leaped  upon  their  straw  bed,  and 
grouped  themselves  as  if  they  had  been  sitting  for  their  portraits 
to  Sir  Edwin  Landseer.  Two  inquisitive  fellows  stood  up  with 
their  paws  upon  the  ledge  of  the  barred  window,  and  looked 
out  at  Violet  and  the  new  master. 

“I  did  not  know  you  were  at  Briarwood,”  she  said,  as  they 
shook  hands. 

“ I only  came  home  last  night.  My  first  visit  was  naturally 
here.  I wanted  to  see  if  everything  was  m.good  order.” 

“When  do  you  begin  to  hunt ?” 

“On  the  1st  of  October.  You  are  going  to  hunt  this  year,  of 
course.” 

“No.  I have  never  followed  the  hounds  since  papa’s  death. 
I don’t  suppose  I ever  shall  again.” 

“What!  not  with  your  step-father?” 

“ Certainly  not  with  Captain  Carmichael.” 

“ Then  yoii  must  marry  a hunting  man,”  said  Rorie,  gayly. 
“We  can’t  afford  to  lose  the  straightest  rider  in  the  Forest.” 

“I  am  not  particularly  in  love  with  hunting — for  a woman. 
There  seems  something  bloodthirsty  in  it.  And  Bates  says  that 
if  ladies  only  knew  how  their  horses’  backs  get  wrung  in  the 
hunting  season,  they  would  bardlv  have  the  heart  to  hunt.  It 
was  very  nice  to  ride  by  papa’s  side  when  I was  a little  girl.  I 
would  have  gone  anywhere  with  him — through  an  Indian  jungle 
after  tigers — but  I don’t  care  about  it  now.” 

“Well,  perhaps  you  are  right:  though  I should  hardly  have 
expected  such  mature  wisdom  from  my  old  playfellow,  whose 
flowing  locks  used  once  to  be  the  cynosure  of  the  hunting  field. 
And  now,  Violet — I may  call  you  Violet,  may  I not,  as  I did  in 
the  old  days — at  least  when  I did  not  call  you  Vixen.” 

“That  was  papa’s  name,”  she  said,  quickly.  “Nobody  ever 
calls  me  that  now.” 

“I  understand;  I am  to  call  you  Violet.  And  we  are  to 
be  good  friends  always,  are  we  not,  with  a true  and  loyal  friend- 
ship?”  •'. 


152 


VIXEN. 


“ I have  not  so  many  friends  that  I can  afford  to  give  up  one 
who  is  stanch  and  true,”  answered  Violet,  sadly. 

“ And  I mean  to  be  stanch  and  true,  believe  me;  and  I hope 
by  and  by,  when  you  come  to  know  Mabel,  you  and  she  will 
be  fast  friends.  You  may  not  cotton  to  her  very  easily  at  first, 
because,  you  see,  she  reads  Greek,  and  goes  in  for  natural  science, 
and  has  a good  many  queer  ways.  But  she  is  all  that  is  purer 
minded  and  noble.  She  has  been  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere 
of  flattery.  It  is  the  only  fault  she  has.” 

‘‘  I shall  be  very  glad  if  she  will  let  me  like  her,”  Violet  said, 
meekly. 

They  had  strolled  away  from  the  kennels  into  the  surround- 
ing forest,  where  the  free  horses  of  the  soil  were  roaming  from 
pasture  to  pasture,  and  a few  vagabond  pigs  were  stealing  a 
march  on  their  brethren  for  whom  the  joys  of  pannage  time  had 
not  yet  begun.  They  walked  along  idly,  following  a cart  track 
that  led  into  the  woody  deeps,  where  the  earliest  autumn  leaves 
were  falling  gently  in  the  soft  west  wind.  By  and  by  they  came 
to  a fallen  oak,  lying  by  the  side  of  the  track,  ready  for  barking, 
and  it  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  sit  down 
side  by  side  on  this  rustic  seat,  and  talk  of  days  gone  by,  lazily 
watching  the  flickering  shadows  and  darting  sun  rays  in  the 
opposite  thicket  or  along  the  slanting  stretch  of  open  turf — that 
smooth  emerald  grass  so  inviting  to  the  eye,  so  perilous  to  the 
foot  of  man  or  beast. 

‘ ‘ And  now,  Violet,  tell  me  all  about  yourself,  and  about  this 
second  marriage  of  your  mother’s,”  Roderick  began,  earnestly. 
“ I hope  you  have  quite  reconciled  yourself  to  the  idea  of  it  by 
this  time.” 

“ I have  not  reconciled  myself;  I never  shall,”  answered  Vio- 
let, with  restrained  anger.  “ I know  that  mamma  has  heaped 
up  sorrow  for  herself  in  the  days  to  come,  and  I pity  her  too 
much  to  be  angry  with  her.  Yes;  I,  who  ought  to  look  up  to 
and  respect  my  mother,  can  only  look  down  upon  her  and  pity 
her.  That  is  a hard  thing,  is  it  not,  Rorie  ? She  has  married  a 
bad  man — mean,  and  false  and  tyrannical.  Shall  I tell  you  what 
he  has  done  within  these  last  few  days?” 

“Do.  I hope  it  is  not  anything  very  bad.” 

Violet  told  how  Bullfinch  had  been  sold. 

“ It  looks  mean,  certainly,”  said  Mr.  Vawdrey;  “but  I dare 
say,  to  Captain  Carmichael,  as  a man  of  the  world,  it  might 
seem  a foolish  thing  to  keep  a horse  nobody  rode,  especially  such 
a valuable  horse  as  Bullfinch.  Your  father  gave  two  hundred 
and  fifty  for  him  at  Andover,  I remember.  And  you  really  have 
BOO  many  horses  at  the  Abbey  House.” 

“ Arion  will  be  the  next  to  be  sold,  I dare  say.” 

“ Oh,  no,  no.  He  could  not  be  such  an  insolent  scoundrel  as 
to  sell  your  horse.  That  would  be  too  much.  Besides,  you 
will  be  of  age  in  a year  or  two  and  your  own  mistress.” 

“ I shall  not  be  of  age  for  the  next  seven  years.  I am  not  to 
come  of  age  till  I am  five-and-twenty.” 

“ Phew  I”  whistled  Rorie.  “ That’s  a long  shot  off.  How  is 
that?” 


VIXE^. 


155 


‘'Papa  left  it  so  in  his  will.  It  was  his  care  of  me,  no  doubt. 
He  never  would  have  believed  that  mamma  would  marry 
again.” 

‘‘  And  for  the  next  seven  years  you  are  to  be  in  a state  of 
tutelage,  dependent  on  your  mother  for  everything?” 

“ For  everything.  And  that  will  really  mean  dependent  upon 
Captain  Carmichael,  because  I am  very  sure  that  as  long  as  he 
lets  mamma  wear  pretty  dresses,  she  will  be  quite  contented  to 
let  him  be  master  of  everything  else.” 

“ But  if  you  were  to  marry ” 

“ I suppose  that  would  entangle  or  disentangle  matters  some- 
how. But  I am  not  likely  to  marry.” 

“ I don't  see  that,”  said  Rorie.  “ I should  think  nothing  was 
more  likely,” 

‘‘Allow  me  to  be  the  best  judge  of  my  own  business,”  ex- 
claimed Vixen,  looking  desperately  angry.  “ I will  go  so  far  as 
to  say  that  I never  shall  marry.” 

“ Oh,  very  well,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  let  it  be  understood  so. 
And  now,  Vix — Violet,  don’t  you  think  if  you  could  bring  your- 
self to  conciliate  Captain  Carmichael,  to  resi^  yourself,  in  fact, 
to  the  inevitable,  and  take  things  pleasantly,  it  would  make  your 
life  happier  for  the  next  seven  years?  I really  would  try  to  do 
it,  if  I were  you.” 

“I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  a life  of  hypocrisy  before  he  sold 
Bullfinch,”  replied  Vixen,  “ but  now  I shall  hate  him  frankly.” 

“ But,  Violet,  don’t  you  see  that  unless  you  can  bring  yourself 
to  live  pleasantly  with  that  man,  your  life  will  be  made  miser- 
able? Fate  condemns  you  to  live  under  the  same  roof  with 
him.” 

“ I am  not  sure  about  that.  I could  go  out  as  a governess.  I 
am  not  at  all  clever,  but  I think  I could  teach  enough  for  twenty 
pounds  a year,  or  at  least  give  my  services  in  exchange  for  a 
comfortable  home,  as  the  advertisements  say.  How  I wish  I 
could  read  Greek  and  play  Chopin,  like  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne  I 
ril  write  to  dear  old  M’Croke  and  ask  her  to  get  me  a place.” 

“My  dear  Violet  how  can  you  talk  so  absurdly!  You,  the 
future  mistress  of  the  Abbey  House,  to  go  meandering  about  the 
world  teaching  butter  men’s  or  tea-dealers’  children  to  spell  B a, 
Ba,  and  A b,  Ab?” 

“It  might  be  better  than  sitting  at  meat  with  a man  I de- 
test,” said  Vixen.  “Am  I to  value  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt  more 
thai^  rny  liberty  and  independence  of  spirit !” 

“ You  have  your  mother  to  think  of,”  urged  Roderick.  “You 
owe  duty  and  obedience  to  her,  even  if  she  has  offended  you  by 
this  foolish  marriage.  If  you  have  so  bad  an  opinion  of  Captain 
Carmichael,  you  are  all  the  more  bound  to  stand  by  your 
mother.” 

“ That  is  an  argument  worth  listening  to,”  said  Vixen.  “ It 
might  be  cruel  to  leave  poor  mamma  quite  at  his  mercy.  I don't 
suppose  he  would  actually  ill-treat  her.  He  knows  his  own  in- 
terest too  well  for  that.  He  would  not  lock  her  up  in  a cellar, 
or  beat  or  starve  her.  He  will  be  content  with  making  himself 
her  master.  She  will  have  no  more  will  of  her  own  than  if  she 


151 


VIXEN. 


were  a prettily  dressed  doll  placed  at  the  head  of  the  table  for 
show.  She  will  be  lulled  into  a state  of  childish  bliss,  and 
smiling  through  life,  believing  she  has  not  a wish  ungratified. 
Everybody  will  think  her  the  happiest  of  women,  and  Captain 
Carmichael  the  best  of  husbands.” 

Vixen  said  all  this  with  prophetic  earnestness,  looking  straight 
forward  into  the  green  glade  before  her,  where  the  beech -nuts 
and  acorns  were  dropping  in  a gentle  rain  of  plenty. 

“I  hope  things  won’t  be  quite  so  bad  as  you  anticipate.  I 
hope  you  will  be  able  to  make  yourself  happy  in  spite  of  Captain 
Carmichael.  And  we  shall  see  each  other  pretty  often,  I liope, 
Violet,  as  we  used  to  in  old  times.  The  Dovedales  are  at  Wies- 
baden— the  duke  only  holds  existence  on  the  condition  of  delug- 
ing himself  with  German  waters  once  a year — but  they  are  to  be 
back  early  in  November.  I shall  make  the  duchess  call  on  Mrs. 
Carmichael  directly  she  returns.” 

“Thanks;  mamma  will  be  very  pleased.  I wonder  you  are 
not  with  them.” 

“ Oh,  I Irid  to  begin  ray  duties  as  M.  F.  H.  I wouldn’t  have 
been  away  for  the  world.” 

Violet  looked  at  her  watch.  It  was  a good  deal  later  than  she 
had  supposed.  Time  goes  quickly  when  one  is  talking  over  a 
new  grievance  with  an  old  friend.  She  was  a long  way  from 
the  Abbey  House. 

“I  must  go  home,”  she  said;  “mamma  and  Captain  Car- 
michael may  arrive  at  any  moment.  There  is  no  time  named  in 
mamma’s  last  telegram,”  she  said;  “ only  that  they  are  moving 
gently  homeward.” 

“ Let  us  go  then,”  said  Eorie,  rising  from  his  rustic  seat. 

“ But  I am  not  going  to  take  you  out  of  your  way.  Every  step 
of  my  way  home  takes  you  further  from  Briar  wood.” 

“ Never  mind  if  it  does.  I mean  to  walk  home  with  you.  I 
dare  say,  if  I were  very  tired.  Bates  wmuld  lend  me  a mount 
home.” 

“You  can  have  Arion,  if  you  like.” 

‘ ‘ No,  thanks.  Arion  shall  not  have  my  thirteen  stone;  I want 
a little  more  timber  under  me.” 

“ You  ought  to  have  had  Bullfinch,”  said  Vixen,  regretfully. 

“ I would  have  had  him  if  I had  known  he  was  in  the  market. 
The  writing  of  a figure  or  so  more  or  less  in  a check  should  not 
have  hindered  me.’* 


CHAPTER  XXITI. 

A BAD  BEGINNING. 

That  walk  through  the  forest  was  very  pleasant  to  Violet.  It 
was  a day  on  which  mere  existence  was  a privilege;  and  now 
that  her  spirits  had  been  soothed  by  her  confidential  talk  with 
Rorie,  Vixen  could  enjoy  those  sights  and  sounds  and  sweet  wild 
scents  of  the  woodland  that  had  ever  been  a rapture  to  her. 

This  forest-born  girl  loved  her  native  woods  as  Wordsworth 
loved  his  lakes  and  mountains,  as  Byron  loved  the  bleak,  bare 
landscape  round  the  city  of  Aberdeen.  Their  poetry  and  beauty 


VIXEIS. 


155 


filled  her  heart  with  a deep  contentment.  To  walk  or  ride  alone 
through  pathless  forest  glades,  or  in  the  scented  darkness  of  fir 
plantations,  was  enough  for  happiness.  But  it  was  comforting 
to-day — on  this  day  when  her  heart  had  been  so  cruelly  wound- 
ed— to  have  Roderick  Vawdrey  by  her  side.  It  was  like  a leaf 
out  of  the  closed  volume  of  the  past. 

They  talked  freely  and  happily  during  that  long  homew^ard 
walk,  and  their  conversation  was  chiefly  of  by-gone  days.  Al- 
most every  speech  began  with,  /‘Do  you  remember?”  Vixen 
was  gayer  than  she  had  been  for  a long  time,  save  once  or  twice 
when  a pang  shot  through  her  heart  at  the  idea  that  Bullfinch 
was  being  shaken  about  in  a railway  box,  oscillating  helplessly 
with  every  vibration  of  the  train,  and  panic-stricken  in  every 
tunnel. 

The  sun  had  declined  from  his  meridian;  he  had  put  on  his 
sober  afternoon  glory,  and  was  sending  shafts  of  mellow  gold 
along  the  green  forest  aisles,  when  Miss  Tempest  and  her  com- 
panion drew  near  the  Abbey  House.  They  went  in  at  the  gate 
by  the  keeper’s  cottage,  the  gate  which  Titmouse  had  jumped  so 
often  in  the  days  when  he  carried  his  childish  mistress.  They 
went  through  the  wood  of  rhododendrons,  and  past  the  old  arch- 
way leading  to  the  stables,  and  round  by  the  shrubbery  to  the 
porch.  The  door  stood  open  as  usual,  and  the  squire’s  old  pointer 
was  lying  on  the  threshold,  but  within  all  was  commotion. 
Dress  iDaskets,  hat  cases,  bonnet  boxes,  gun  cases,  traveling  bags, 
carriage  rugs,  were  lying  about  in  every  direction.  Mrs.  Car- 
michael was  leaning  back  in  the  large  chair  by  the  fire-place, 
fanning  herself  with  her  big  black  fan;  Pauline  was  standing  by 
in  attendance,  and  the  gypsy  table,  with  the  Bristol  tea  set,  was 
being  brought  in  by  Forbes,  the  butler,  whose  honest  old  face 
wore  a troubled  aspect. 

Captain  Carmichael  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  hearth, 
his  countenance  and  whole  figure  wearing  the  unmistakable  air 
of  the  master  of  a house  who  has  returned  to  his  domicile  in  an 
execrable  temper. 

Violet  ran  to  Mrs.  Carmichael,  every  other  thought  forgotten 
in  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  mother  again.  These  six  weeks 
were  the  longest  parting  mother  and  daughter  had  ever  known; 
and,  after  all.  blood  is  thicker  than  water,  and  there  is  a natural 
leaning  in  a child’s  mind  even  to  the  weakest  of  parents. 

Mr.  Vawdrey  stood  in  the  background  waiting  till  those  affec- 
tionate greetings  natural  to  such  an  occasion  should  be  over. 

But  to  his  surprise  there  were  no  such  greetings.  Mrs.  Car- 
michael went  on  fanning  herself  vehemently,  with  a vexed  ex- 
pression of  countenance,  wliile  Violet  bent  over  and  kissed  her. 
Captain  Carmichael  swayed  himself  slowly  backward  and  for- 
ward upon  the  heels  of  his  boots,  and  whistled  to  himself  sotto 
voce,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  some  lofty  region  of  empty  air. 
He  vouchsafed  not  the  faintest  notice  of  his  step-daughter  or 
Mr.  Vawdrey. 

“ It’s  really  too  bad  of  you,  Violet,”  the  mother  exclaimed  at 
last 


156  VIXEN. 

‘‘  Dear  mamma,”  cried  Vixen,  in  blank  amazement,  what 
have  I done  ?” 

‘‘To  go  roaming  about  the  country,”  pursued  Mrs.  Car- 
michael, plaintively,  “for  hours  at  a stretch,  nobody  knowing 
where  to  find  you  or  what  had  become  of  you.  And  my  telegram 
lying  there  unattended  to.” 

“ Did  you  telegraph,  mamma  ?” 

“ Did  1 telegraph  ? Should  I come  home  without  telegraph- 
ing ? Should  I be  so  mad  as  to  expose  myself  knowingly  to  the 
outrage  which  has  been  offered  to  me  to-day  ?” 

“ Dearest  mamma,  you  alarm  me.  What  has  happened?” 

“ One  of  the  deepest  humiliations  I ever  had  to  endure.  But 
you  were  roaming  about  the  forest.  You  were  following  the 
instincts  of  your  wild  nature.  What  do  you  care  for  my  morti- 
fication ? If  I had  telegraphed  to  my  housekeeper,  it  would  not 
have  happened.  But  I trusted  in  my  daughter.” 

“ Dear  mamma,”  pleaded  Vixen,  looking  anxious  and  bewil- 
dered, “ if  you  would  only  explain.  You  make  me  miserable. 
What  has  happened  ?” 

“ Violet,  your  step-father  and  I had  to  drive  home  from  the 
station  in  a fly!” 

‘ Oh,  mamma!”  cried  Vixen,  with  agasp.  “ Is  that  all  ?” 

“ Is  that  all?  Do  you  think  that  is  not  enough  ? Do  you  un- 
derstand, child  ? — a fly — a common  innkeeper’s  fly — that  any- 
body may  have  for  half  a guinea;  a fly  with  a moldy  lining, 
smelling  of — other  people!  And  on  such  an  occasion,  when  every 
eye  was  upon  us!  No;  I was  never  so  degraded.  And  we  had 
to  wait — yes,  a quarter  of  an  hour  at  least,  and  it  seemed  ages, 
wdiile  Pycroft’s  fly  was  got  ready  for  us;  yes,  while  a rough  forest 
pony  was  dragged  out  of  his  wretched  stable,  and  a man,  whose 
face  had  not  been  washed  for  a week,  shuffled  himself  into  an 
old  watchman’s  coat.  And  there  were  all  the  porters  staring  at 
me,  and  laughing  inwardly,  I know.  And,  as  a last  drop  in  the 
cup,  Colonel  Carteret  drove  up  in  his  phaeton  to  catch  the  up 
train  just  as  we  were  getting  into  that  disgraceful-looking 
vehicle,  and  w’ould  stop  to  shake  hands  with  us  both,  and  insisted 
upon  handing  me  into  the  horrid  thing.” 

“ Dear  mamma,  I am  more  sorry  than  I can  say,”  said  Vixen, 
gently;  “ but  I was  afraid  it  was  something  much  worse.” 

“ Nothing  could  be  worse.  Vixen.” 

“ Then  the  telegram  was  to  order  the  carriage  to  meet  you,  I 
suppose  ?” 

“ Of  course.  We  telegTaphed  from  the  Grosvenor  at  nine 
o’clock  this  morning.  Who  would  imagine  that  you  w'ould  be 
out  of  doors  at  such  an  hour.” 

“ I am  not  often  out  so  early.  But  something  happened  this 
morning  to  put  me  out  of  temper,  and  I went  for  a ramble.” 

“ A ramble  lasting  from  nine  in  the  morning  till  half  past 
four  in  the  afternoon,”  remarked  Captain  Carmichael,  with  hi 5 
gaze  still  fixed  upon  empty  space.  “Rather  a long  walk  for  a 
solitary  young  lady.” 

Vixen  appealed  unconscious  that  any  one  had  spoken.  Rod- 


VIXEN.  157 

enck  Vawdrey  felt  a burning  desire  to  kick  the  new  master  of 
the  Abbey  House. 

“ Shall  I pour  out  your  tea,  mamma?”  asked  Vixen,  meekly. 

“If  you  like.  I am  utterly  prostrate.  To  have  no  carriage 
to  meet  me  on  such  an  occasion!  I dare  say  everybody  in  the 
Forest  knows  all  about  it  by  this  time.  When  I came  home 
from  my  honey-moon  with  your  poor  papa,  the  church  bells 
rang  all  the  afternoon,  and  the  road  was  lined  with  people  wait- 
ing to  get  a glimpse  of  us,  and  there  were  floral  arches ” 

“ Ah,  mamma,  those  things  cannot  happen  twice  in  a life- 
time,” said  Vixen,  with  irrepressible  bitterness.  “ One  happy 
marriage  is  as  much  as  any  woman  ctin  expect.” 

“A  woman  has  the  right  to  expect  her  own  carriage,”  said 
Captain  Carmichael. 

“ I am  afraid  I have  paid  my  visit  at  rather  at  unfortunate 
moment,”  said  Roderick,  coming  forward  and  addressing  him- 
self solely  to  Mrs.  Carmichael;  “but  I could  not  go  without  saying 
how  do  you  do.  I hope  you  had  a pleasant  journey  from  Scot- 
land— bar  the  fly.” 

“How  do  you  do,  Roderick?  Yes,  it  was  all  pleasant  except 
that  last  contretemps.  Imagine  the  Duchess  of  Doved ale’s  feel- 
ings if  she  arrived  at  the  station  adjoining  her  own  estate  and 
found  no  carriage  to  meet  her!” 

“ My  aunt  would  tuck  up  her  petticoats  and  trudge  home,” 
answered  Roderick,  smiling.  “She’s  a plucky  little  woman.” 

“Yes,  perhaps,  on  an  ordinary  occasion.  But  to-day  it  was 
so  different.  Everybody  will  talk  about  our  return.” 

“ Most  people  are  still  away,”  suggested  Rorie,  with  a view  to 
comfort. 

“Oh,  but  their  servants  will  hear  it,  and  they  will  tell  their 
masters  and  mistresses.  All  gossip  begins  that  way.  Besides, 
Colonel  Carteret  saw  us,  and  what  he  knows  everybody  knows.” 

After  this  Roderick  felt  that  all  attempts  at  consolation  were 
hopeless.  He  would  have  liked  to  put  Mrs.  Carmichael  into  a 
better  temper  for  Violet’s  sake.  It  was  not  a pleasant  home  at- 
mosphere in  which  he  was  obliged  to  leave  his  old  playfellow 
on  this  the  first  day  of  her  new  life.  Captain  Carmichael  main- 
tained a forbidding  silence;  Mrs.  Carmichael  did  not  even  ask 
anyone  to  have  a cup  of  tea;  Violet  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
hearth,  pale  and  quiet,  with  Argus  at  her  knee,  and  one  arm 
wound  caressingly  round  his  honest  head. 

“ I’ve  been  looking  at  the  kennels  this  morning,”  said  Rode- 
rick, looking  at  the  new  master  of  the  Abbey  House  with  a 
cheerful  assumption  that  everything  was  going  on  pleasantly. 
“We  shall  begin  business  on  the  1st.  You’ll  hunt,  of  course.” 

“Well,  yes;  I suppose  I shall  give  myself  a day  occasionally.” 

“I  shall  not  have  a happy  moment  while  you  are  out,”  said 
Mrs.  Carmichacfl.  “I  used  to  be  miserable  about  poor  dear 
Edward.” 

Vixen  winced.  These  careless  references  to  the  dead  hurt  her 
mere  than  the  silence  of  complete  oblivion.  To  remember,  and 
to  be  able  to  speak  so  lightly.  That  seemed  horrible. 

“ I doubt  if  I shall  hunt  much  this  season,”  pursued  Captain 


i58 


VIXEN. 


Carmichael,  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  was  not  going  to  be  grate- 
ful to  the  new  master  of  the  fox- hounds  as  a public  benefactor, 
however  many  hundreds  that  gentleman  might  disburse  in  order 
to  make  up  the  short-comings  of  a scanty  subscription.  “ x 
shall  have  a great  deal  to  occupy  me.  This  place  has  been  much 
neglected,  naturally,  within  the  last  few  years.  There  is  no 
end  of  w’ork  to  be  done.” 

Are  you  going  to  pull  down  the  Abbey  House  and  build  an 
Italian  villa  on  its  site  ?”  asked  Vixen,  her  upper  lip  curling 
angrily.  “That  would  be  rather  a pity.  Some  people  think  it 
a fine  old  place,  and  it  has  been  in  my  father’s  family  since  the 
reign  of  Henry  the  Eighth.” 

To  the  captain’s  ear  this  speech  had  a covert  insolence.  The 
Abbey  House  was  to  belong  to  Violet  in  the  future.  Neither  he 
nor  his  wife  had  a right  to  touch  a stone  of  it. 

“ I hope  I shall  do  nothing  injudicious,”  he  said,  politely. 

“ My  aunt  will  be  back  in  a week  or  two,  Mrs.  Carmichael,” 
said  Eoderick.  “ I shall  bring  her  over  to  see  you  directly  she 
settles  down  at  Ashbourne.  And  now  I think  I’d  better  be  off; 
I’ve  a long  walk  home,  and  you  must  be  too  tired  to  care  about 
talking  or  being  talked  to.” 

“I  am  very  tired,”  answered  Mrs.  Carmichael,  languidly; 
“ but  I should  have  liked  to  hear  all  the  news.” 

“ I’m  afraid  that’s  not  much.  I only  came  home  last  night;  I 
have  been  shooting  grouse  in  Eenfrew.” 

“ Plenty  of  birds  this  year?”  inquired  the  captain,  with  a 
languid  interest. 

“Pretty  fair.  The  rainy  spring  killed  a good  many  of  the 
young  birds.” 

Do  you  remember  any  year  in  which  that  complaint  was  not 
made?”  retorted  Captain  Carmichael. 

Eorie  took  his  departure  after  this,  and  contrived  to  give 
Violet’s  hand  an  encouraging  squeeze  at  parting,  accompanied 
with  a straight  steady  look,  which  said  as  plainly  as  words: 
“ V'ou  have  one  friend  who  will  be  stanch  and  true,  come  what 
may.” 

Vixen  understood  him,  and  sudden  tears  welled  up  to  her  eyes 
—the  first  that  had  clouded  them  since  her  parting  with  Bull- 
finch. She  brushed  them  away  hurriedly,  but  not  so  quickly  as 
to  escape  Captain  Carmichael’s  observation. 

“If  you’ll  excuse  me,  mamma.  I’ll  run  and  dress  for  dinner,” 
she  said,  “unless  there  is  anything  I can  do  for  you.  Your 
rooms  are  quite  ready.” 

“ I’m  glad  of  that,”  replied  Mrs.  Carmichael,  fretfully;  “for 
really,  after  our  reception  at  the  railway  station,  I expected  to 
find  everything  at  sixes  and  sevens.” 

“Dear  mamma,  you  must  know  that  was  quite  an  accident.” 

“ An  accident  very  likely  to  occur  when  a young  lady  indulges 
in  tete-alete  forest  rambles  with  an  old  friend,  instead  of  wait- 
ing at  home  for  her  mother’s  letters  and  telegrams,”  remarked 
Captain  Carmichael,  caressing  his  neat  whisker  with  his  irre- 
proachable hand. 

What  do  you  mean?”  said  Vixen,  turning  sharply  upon  him. 


VIXEN.  159 

went  out  alone  this  morning.  Mr.  Vawdrey  and  I met  at 
the  kennels  by  accident.” 

“A  chapter  of  accidents,”  sneered  the  captain.  “ I have  no 
objection  to  make,  Miss  Tempest,  if  your  mamma  has  none.  But 
I am  rather  sorry  for  the  young  lady  Mr.  Vawdrey  is  going  to 
marry.” 

“ Mr.  Vawdrey  was  my  father’s  friend,  and  will  never  cease  to 
be  mine,”  said  Vixen,  with flasliing  eyes.  “There  can  be  noth- 
ing offensive  to  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne  in  our  friendship.” 

She  was  gone  before  her  step-father  could  reply,  or  her  mother 
reprove  her  want  of  respect  for  that  new  relative. 

“I  suppose  I had  bettetr  go  and  dress  too,”  said  Mrs.  Car- 
michael, “and  in  the  evening  we  can  talk  about  our  first  dinner 
party.  I dare  say  we  shall  have  a great  many  people  calling  to- 
morrow afternoon.  It  will  be  rather  trying.  There  is  such  a 
painful  feeling  in  being  a bride  and  not  a bride,  as  it  were.  Peo- 
ple’s congratulations  hardly  sound  hearty.” 

“ I dare  say  they  have  rather  a vapid  fiavor,  like  a warmed-up 
dinner,”  said  the  captain.  “That  is  the  result  of  living  in  a 
neighborhood  where  your  first  husband  was  known  and  popular. 
If  we  went  among  strangers,  their  congratulations  would  be  a 
great  deal  heartier.  But  I hope  you  don’t  begin  to  repent 
already,  my  dear  Pamela.” 

“Conrad!  How  can  you  imagine  such  a thing? — after  your 
delicate  attentions,  your  devoted  care  of  me  during  our  tour. 
What  dress  shall  I wear  this  evening  ? Do  you  like  me  best  in 
blue  or  amber?” 

“To  my  eye  all  colors  suit  you.  But  I think  a woman” — he 
was  going  to  say  “ of  your  age,”  but  checked  himself  and  sub- 
stituted—“ in  the  maturity  of  her  beauty  looks  best  in  velvet,  or 
some  rich  and  heavy  material  that  falls  in  massive  folds,  like  the 
drapery  in  a portrait  by  Velasquez.  A border  of  fur,  too,  is  an 
artistic  introduction  in  a woman’s  dress — you  see  it  often  in 
Velasquez.  Heavy  old  laces  are,  of  course,  always  admirable. 
And  for  color  I like  the  warmer  hues  best — wine-dark  purples  or 
deep  glowing  reds;  rich,  ruddy  browns,  with  a knot  of  amber  now 
and  then  for  relief.”  ^ 

“ How  beautifully  you  talk!”  cried  Mrs.  Carmichael,  delighted. 
“ I only  wish  Theodore  could  hear  you.  It  would  give  her  new 
ideas;  for,  after  all,  the  best  dress-makers  are  hornees.  It  is  too 
early  in  the  year  for  velvet;  I shall  put  on  my  dark  green  bro- 
cade, with  the  old  Flanders  lace.  I am  so  glad  you  like  lace.  It 
is  my  chief  weakness.  Even  dear  Edward,  who  was  so  gener- 
ous, thought  me  a little  extravagant  in  the  matter  of  lace.  But 
when  one  once  begins  to  collect,  the  study  is  so  interesting  one 
is  led  on.” 

“Good  Heavens!  is  my  wife  a collector?”  thought  Captain 
Carmichael,  horrified.  “ That  must  be  put  a stop  to,  or  she  will 
ruin  me.” 

And  then  he  went  off  to  his  dressing-room,  rather  wearily,  to 
put  on  full  dress  for  a home  dinner — a sacrifice  to  his  new  state 
of  existence  which  he  found  ver/  irksome.  He  wmuld  have 
Uked  to  dine  in  a shooting-jacket,  and  smoke  aU  the  evening. 


160 


l^IXEK 


But  Ids  smoKing  ijow’,  instead  of  pervading  the  wnole  house,  ag 
it  had  done  in  his  snug  bachelor  quarters,  was  an  indulgence  to 
be  taken  out-of-doors,  or  in  a room  appointed  for  the  purpose. 
He  was  not  even  to  smoke  in  the  fine  old  hall,  for  it  was  one  of 
the  family  sitting  rooms,  and  Mrs.  Carmichael  could  not  endure 
smoke. 

“I  am  not  at  all  fanciful  or  ca]>3*icious,”  she  told  her  husband 
early  in  the  honeymoon,  “but  smoking  is  one  of  my  horrors. 
I hope,  dear  Conrad,  it  is  not  too  much  to  ask  you  never  to 
smoke  in  any  room  I use.” 

Captain  Carmichael  pledged  himself  to  respect  this  and  every 
other  wish  of  his  wife’s.  It  was  his  policy  to  be  subservient  in 
small  matters,  in  order  to  be  master  in  things  of  importance. 
But  that  daily  dressing  for  dinner  was  something  of  a bore;  and 
the  dinners  themselves — tete-a-tete  dinners,  in  which  he  had  to 
take  as  much  trouble  to  be  amusing  as  at  a dinner  party— had 
been  apt  to  hang  heavily  upon  him.  He  had  even  proposed 
dining  at  the  table  d'hote,  but  this  idea  Mrs.  Carmichael  rejected 
with  horror. 

“I  have  never  dined  at  a table  dliote  in  my  life,  Conrad,”  she 
exclaimed,  “ and  I certainly  should  not  begin  during  my  wed- 
ding tour.” 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

ON  HALF  RATIONS. 

Captain  Carmichael  entered  upon  his  new  position  with  a 
fixed  determination  to  make  the  best  of  it,  and  with  a very  clear 
view  of  its  advantages  and  disadvantages.  For  seven  years  he 
was  to  be  master  ot  everything — or  his  wife  was  to  be  misti\^ss, 
which,  in  his  mind,  was  exactly  the  same.  No  one  could  ques- 
tion his  use  of  the  entire  income  arising  from  Squire  Tempest’s 
estates  during  that  period.  When  Violet  came  of  age — on  her 
twent}" -fifth  birthday — the  estates  were  to  be  passed  over  to  her 
ill  toto;  blit  there  was  not  a word  in  the  squire’s  will  as  to  the 
income  arising  during  her  minority.  Nor  had  the  squire  made 
any  provision  in  the  event  of  his  daughter’s  marriage.  If  Violet 
were  to  marry  to-morrow  she  would  go  to  her  husband  penni- 
less. He  would  not  touch  a sixpence  of  her  fortune  until  she 
was  twenty- five.  If  she  were  to  die  during  her  minority  the  es- 
tate would  revert  to  her  mother. 

It  was  a very  nice  estate,  taken  as  a sample  of  a country 
squire's  possess^ions.  Besides  the  New  Forest  property,  there 
were  farms  in  Wiltshire  and  Dorsetshire,  the  whole  yielding  an 
income  of  between  five  and  six  thousand  a 5’ ear.  With  such  a 
revenue,  and  the  Abbey  House  and  all  its  belongings  rent  free. 
Captain  Carmichael  felt  himself  in  a land  of  Canaan.  But  then 
there  was  the  edict  that  seven  years  hence  he  was  to  go  forth 
from  this  land  of  milk  and  honey,  or,  at  any  rate,  was  to  find 
himself  living  at  the  Abbey  House  on  a sorely  restricted  income. 
Fifteen  Imndred  a year  in  "such  a house  would  mean  genteel  beg- 
gary, he  told  himself,  despondently.  And  even  this  gentee 


VIXEN.  161 

bogf'ory  would  be  coutiugent  on  his  wife's  life.  Her  death  would 
rob  him  of  everything. 

He  had  a mind  given  to  calculation,  and  he  entered  upon  the 
closest  calculations  as  to  his  future.  He  meant  to  enjoy  life,  oi 
course.  He  had  always  donetl  at  to  the  best  of  bis  ability.  But 
he  saw  that  the  chief  duty  he  owed  to  himself  was  to  save 
money;  and  to  lay  by  against  the  evil,  inevitable  day  when  VicH 
let  Tempest  would  despoil  him  of  power  and  wealth.  The  only 
way  to  do  this  was  by  the  cutting  down  of  present  expenses, 
and  an  immediate  naiTowing  of  the  lines  on  which  the  Abbey 
House  was  being  conducted;  for  the  cai)tain  had  discovered 
that  his  wdfe,  who  was  the  most  careless  and  incompetent  of 
women  as  regards  money  matters,  had  been  spending  the  wliole 
of  her  income  since  her  husband's  death.  If  she  had  not  spent 
her  money  on  society,  she  had  spent  it  on  traveling,  on  lace,  on 
old  china,  on  dress,  on  hot-house  flowers,  on  a stable  wdiich  w^as 
three  times  larger  than  she  could  possibly  require,  on  a Imuse- 
hold  in  which  there  were  a good  many  more  cats  than  w^ere 
\vanted  to  catch  mice,  on  bounties  and  charities  that  were  given 
upon  no  principle,  not  even  from  inclination,  but  only  because 
Squire  Tempest’s  widow  had  never  been  able  to  say  no. 

Captain  Carmichael’s  first  retrenchment  had  been  the  sale  of 
Bullfinch,  for  which  noble  animal  Lord  Mallow^ — a young  Irish 
viscount — had  given  a check  for  three  hundred  guineas.  This 
money  the  captain  put  on  deposit  at  his  banker’s,  by  way  of  a 
nest-egg.  He  meant  it  to  grow  into  something  worth  investing 
before  those  seven  fat  years  were  half  gone. 

He  told  his  wdfe  his  views  on  the  financial  question  one  morn- 
ing w-bcn  they  were  breakfasting  tete-a-tete  in  the  library,  where 
the  squire  and  his  family  had  always  dined  when  there  was  no 
company.  Captain  and  Mrs.  Carmichael  generally  had  the 
privilege  of  breakfasting  alone,  as  Violet  was  up  and  away  be- 
fore her  mother  appeared.  The  captain  also  was  an  early  riser, 
and  had  done  half  his  day’s  work  before  he  sat  down  to  the  lux- 
Uiious  ten-o’clock  breakfast  with  his  wife. 

“ I have  been  thinking  of  your  ponies,  pet,”  he  said,  in  a 
pleasant  voice,  half  careless,  half  caressing,  as  he  helped  himself 
to  a salmon  cutlet,  “ Don’t  you  think  it  would  be  a very  wise 
thing  to  get  rid  of  them  ?” 

“ Oh,  Conrad!”  cried  his  wife,  letting  the  water  from  the  urn 
overflow  the  tea-pot  in  her  astonishment,  “ you  can't  mean  that! 
Part  with  my  ponies  ? ’ 

“My  dear  love,  how  often  do  you  drive  them  in  a twelve- 
month?” 

“ Not  very  often,  perhaps.  I have  felt  rather  nervous  driving 
latel}^ — carts  and  great  wagon-loads  of  bay  come  out  upon  one 
so  suddenly  from  cross-roads.  1 don't  think  the  wagoners  would 
care  a bit  if  one  were  killed.  But  I am  very  fond  of  my  gray 
ponies.  They  are  so  pretty.  They  have  quite  Arabian  heads. 
Colonel  Carteret  says  so,  and  he  has  been  in  Arabia.” 

“ But,  my  dear  Pamela,  do  you  think  it  worth  while  keeping 
a pair  of  ponies  because  they  are  pretty,  and  because  Colonel 
Carteret,  who  knows  about  as  much  of  a horse  as  I do  of  a 


162 


VIXEN. 


Megalosaurus,  says  they  have  Arabian  heads?”  Have  you  ever 
calculated  what  those  ponies  cost  you  ?” 

“ No,  Conrad;  1 should  hate  myself  if  I were  always  calculat- 
ing the  cost  of  things.” 

“ Yes,  that’s  all  very  well  in  the  abstract.  But  if  you  are  in- 
clined to  waste  money,  it’s  just  as  well  to  know  how  much  you 
are  wasting.  Those  ponies  are  costing  you  at  the  least  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  a year,  for  you  could  manage  with  a man 
less  in  the  stables  if  you  hadn’t  got  them.” 

“ That’s  a good  deal  of  money  certainly,,’  said  Mrs.  Carmichael, 
who  hated  driving,  and  had  only  driven  her  ponies  because 
other  people  in  her  position  drove  ponies,  and  she  felt  it  was  a 
right  thing  to  do.  Still,  the  idea  of  parting  with  anything  that 
appertained  to  her  state  wounded  her  deeply.  “ I can’t  see  why 
we  should  worry  ourselves  about  the  cost  of  the  stables,”  she 
said;  ‘‘they  have  gone  on  in  the  same  way  ever  since  I was 
married.  Why  should  things  be  different  now  ?” 

“ Don’t  you  see  that  you  have  the  future  to  consider,  Pamela? 
This  handsome  incouje  which  you  are  spending  so  lavishly ” 

“ Edward  never  accused  me  of  extravagance,”  interjected 
Mrs.  Carmichael,  tearfully,  “ except  in  lace.  He  did  hint  that 
I was  a little  extravagant  in  lace.” 

“ This  fine  income  is  to  be  reduced  seven  years  hence  to  fifteen 
hundred  a year — an  income  upon  which,  with  mine  added  to  it, 
you  could  not  expect  to  be  able  to  carry  on  life  decently  in 
such  a house  as  this.  So  you  see,  Pamela,  unless  we  contrive 
between  us  to  put  by  a considerable  sum  of  money  before  vour 
daughter’s  majority,  we  shall  be  obliged  to  leave  the  Abbey 
House,  and  li\e  in  a much  s.maller  way  than  we  are  living 
now^” 

“Leave  the  Abbey  House!”  cried  Mrs.  Carmichael,  with  a 
horrified  look.  “ Conrad,  I have  lived  in  this  house  ever  since  I 
was  married.” 

“Am  I not  aware  of  that,  my  dear  love?  But,  all  the  same, 
you  would  have  to  leave  this  place,  and  live  in  a much  smaller 
house,  if  you  had  only  fifteen  hundred  a year  to  live  upon.” 

“It  would  be  too  humiliating!  At  the  end  of  one^s  life!  I 
should  never  survive  such  a degradation.” 

“It  may  be  prevented  if  we  exercise  reasonable  economy 
during  the  next  seven  ye^.” 

“Sell  my  ponies,  then,  Conrad;  sell  them  immediately.  Why 
should  we  allow  them  to  eat  us  out  of  house  and  home?  Frisky 
shies  abominably  if  she  is  in  the  least  bit  fresh,  and  Peter  has 
gone  so  far  as  to  lie  down  in  the  road  when  he  has  had  one  of 
his  lazy  fits.” 

“ But  if  they  are  really  a source  of  pleasure  to  you,  my  dear 
Pamela,  I should  hate  myself  for  selling  them,”  said  the  captain, 
seeing  he  had  gained  his  point. 

“They  are  not  a source  of  pleasure.  They  have  given  me 
some  awful  frights.” 

“Then  we’ll  send  them  up  to  Tattersall’s  immediately,  with 
the  carriage.” 


VIXEN.  163 

Violet  uses  the  carriage  with  Titmouse,”  objected  Mrs.  Car- 
michael. “ We  could  hardly  spare  the  carriage.” 

“ Mv  love,  if  I part  with  your  ponies  from  motives  of  economy, 
do  you  suppose  I would  keep  a pony  for  your  daughter?”  said 
the  captain,  with  a grand  air.  “No;  Titmouse  must  go,  of 
course.  That  will  dispose  of  a man  and  a boy  in  the  stables. 
Violet  spends  so  much  of  her  life  on  horseback  that  she  cannot 
possibly  want  a pony  to  drive,” 

“ She  is  very  fond  of  Titmouse,”  pleaded  the  mother. 

“She  has  a tendency  to  lavish  her  affection  on  quadrupeds— 
a weakness  which  hardly  needs  fostering.  I shall  write  to  Tat- 
tersall  about  the  three  ponies  this  morning;  and  I shall  send  up 
that  great  raking  brown  liorse  Bates  rides  at  the  same  time. 
Bates  can  ride  one  of  my  hunters.  That  will  bring  down  tlie 
stable  to  five  horses— my  two  hunters,  Arion,  and  your  pair  of 
carriage-horses.  ” 

“Five  horses,”  sighed  Mrs.  Carmichael,  pensively;  “I  shall 
hardly  know  those  great  stables  with  only  five  horses  in  them. 
The  dear  old  place  used  to  look  so  pretty  and  so  full  of  life  when 
I was  first  married,  and  when  the  squire  used  to  coax  me  to  go 
with  him  on  his  morning  rounds.  The  horses  used  to  move  on 
one  side,  and  turn  their  heads  so  prettily  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice— such  lovely,  sleek,  shining  creatures,  with  big,  intelligent 
eyes.” 

“ You  would  be  a richer  womati  if  it  had  not  been  for  those 
lovely,  sleek,  shining  creatures,”  said  Captain  Carmichael. 
“And  now,  love,  let  us  go  round  the  gardens,  and  you  will  see 
the  difference  that  young  able-bodied  gardeners  are  making  iu 
the  appearance  of  the  place.” 

Mrs.  Carmichael  gave  a feeble  little  sigh  as  she  rose  and  rang 
the  bell  for  Pauline.  The  good  old  gray -haired  gardeners — the 
men  who  had  seemed  to  her  as  much  a part  of  the  gardens  as 
the  trees  that  grew  in  them — these  hoary  and  faithful  servants 
had  been  cashiered  to  make  room  for  two  brawny  y<»ung  Scotch- 
men, whose  dialect  was  as  Greek  to  the  mistress  of  the  Abbey 
House.  It  wounded  her  not  a little  to  see  these  strangers  at 
work  m her  grounds.  It  gave  an  aspect  of  strangeness  to  her 
very  life  out-of-doors.  She  hardly  cared  to  go  into  her  con- 
servatories or  to  loiter  on  her  lawn,  with  those  hard,  unfamiliar 
eyes  looking  at  her.  And  it  wrung  her  to  the  heart  to  think  of 
the  squire’s  old  servants  thrust  out  in  their  old  age,  unpensioned, 
uncared  for.  Yet  this  was  a change  that  had  come  about  with 
her  knowledge,  and  seemingly  with  her  consent.  That  is  to  say, 
the  captain  had  argued  her  into  a corner,  where  she  stood,  like 
the  last  forlorn  king  in  a game  of  draughts,  fenced  round  and 
hemmed  in  by  opponent  kings.  She  had  not  the  strength  of 
mind  to  assert  herself  boldly  and  say,  “ I will  not  have  it  so. 
This  injustice  shall  not  be.” 

A change  had  come  over  the  spirit  of  the  Abbey  House  kitch- 
en, which  was  sorely  felt  in  Beechdale  and  those  half-dozen 
clusters  of  cottages  within  a two- mile  radius  which  called  them- 
selves villages,  and  all  of  which  had  turned  to  the  Abbey  House 
for  light  and  comfort,  as  the  sunflower  turns  to  the  sun.  Cap- 


1G4 


VIXEN. 


tain  Carmichael  had  set  his  face  against  what  he  called  misceh 
laneous  charity.  Such  things  should  be  done,  and  no  other.  His 
wife  should  subscribe  liberally  to  all  properly  organized  institu- 
tions— schools,  Dorcas  societies,  maternity  societies,  soup  kitch- 
ens, regulated  dole  of  bread  or  coals,  every  form  of  relief 
that  was  given  systematically  and  by  line  and  rule;  but  the 
good  Samaritan  business,  the  picking  up  stray  travelers  and 
paying  for  their  maintenance  at  inns,  was  not  in  the  captain’s 
view  of  charity.  Henceforward  Mrs.  Carmichael’  name  was  to 
appear  with  due  honor  upon  all  printed  subscription  lists,  just  as 
it  bad  done  when  she  was  Mrs.  Tempest,  but  the  glory  of  the 
Abbey  House  was  departed.  The  beggar  and  the  cadger  were 
no  longer  sure  of  a meal.  The  villagers  were  no  longer  to 
come  boldly  asking  for  what  they  wanted  in  time  of  trouble—^ 
broth,  wine,  jelly  for  the  sick,  allowances  of  new  milk,  a daily 
loaf  when  father  was  out  of  work,  broken  victuals  at  all  times.  It 
was  all  over.  The  kitchen  doors  were  to  be  closed  against  all 
intruders. 

“ My  love,  I do  not  wonder  that  you  have  spent  every  six- 

Eence  of  your  income,”  said  Captain  Carmichael.  “You" have 
een  keeping  an  Iiish  household.  I can  fancy  an  O’Donoghue 
or  a Knight  of  Gwynne  living  in  this  kind  of  way,  but  I should 
hardly  have  expected  such  utter  riot  and  recklessness  in  an  En- 
glish gentleman’s  house.” 

“ I am  afraid  Trimmer  has  been  rather  extravagant,”  assented 
Mrs.  Carmichael.  “ I have  trusted  everything  to  her  entirely, 
knowing  that  she  is  quite  devoted  to  us,  poor  dear  soul.” 

“ She  is  so  devoted  that  I should  think  in  another  year  or  so, 
at  the  rate  she  was  going,  she  would  have  landed  you  in  the 
bankruptcy  court.  Her  books  for  the  last  ten  y^ears — I have 
gone  through  them  carefully  — show  an  expenditure  that  is  posi- 
tively ruinous.  However,  I think  I have  let  her  see  that  her 
housekeeping  must  be  done  upon  very  different  lines  in  future.” 

“ You  made  her  cry  very  bitterly,  poor  thing,”  said  his  wife. 
Her  eyes  were  quite  red  when  she  came  out  of  your  study.” 

“ Made  her  cry  I”  echoed  the  captain,  contemptuously.  “She 
is  so  fat  that  the  slightest  emotion  liquefies  her.  It  isn’t  water 
but  oil  that  she  sheds  when  she  makes  believe  to  weep.” 

“She  has  been  a faithful  servant  to  me  for  the  last  twenty 
years,”  moaned  Mrs.  Carmichael. 

“ And  she  will  be  a much  more  faithful  servant  to  you  for  the 
next  twenty  years,  if  she  lives  so  long.  I am  not  going  to  send 
her  away.  She  is  an  admirable  cook,  and  now  she  knows  that 
she  is  not  to  let  your  substance  run  out  at  the  back-door.  I dare 
say  she  will  be  a fairly  good  manager.  I shall  look  after  her 
rather  sharply,  I assure  you.  I was  caterer  for  our  mess  three 
years,  and  I know  pretty  well  what  a household  ought  to  cost  per 
head.” 

“Oh,  Conrad  I”  cried  his  wife,  piteously,  “you  talk  as  if  we 
were  an  institution,  or  a work- house,  or  something  horrid.” 

“ My  love,  a man  of  sense  ought  to  be  able  to  regulate  a private 
establishment  at  least  as  well  as  a board  of  thick-headed  guard- 
ians can  regulate  a wmrk-house.” 


VIXEN'. 


165 


Pcx)r  Mrs.  Trimmer  had  left  her  new  master’s  presence  sorely 
bowed  down  in  spirits.  She  was  so  abased  that  she  could  only 
retire  to  her  own  snug  sitting-room — a paneled  parlor,  with  aii 
ancient  ivy-wreathed  casement  looking  into  the  stable-yard— 
and  indulge  herself  with  what  she  called  “a  good  cry.”  It  was 
not  until  later  that  she  felt  equal  to  communicating  her  grief  to 
Forbes  and  Pauline,  over  the  one-o’clock  dinner. 

She  had  had  a passage  of  arms,  which  she  denominated  “ a 
stand  further,”  with  the  captain  ; but  it  appeared  that  her  own 
stand  had  been  feeble.  He  had  been  going  over  the  housekeep- 
ing accounts  for  the  last  ten  years — accounts  which  neither  the 
squire  nor  his  wife  had  ever  taken  the  trouble  to  examine — ac- 
counts honestly  but  somewhat  carelessly  and  unskillfully  made 
out.  There  had  been  an  expenditure  that  w'as  positively  scan 
dalous,  Captain  Carmichael  told  Mrs.  Trimmer. 

“ If  you’re  dissatisfied,  sir,  perhaps  I’d  better  go,”  the  old  wom- 
an said,  tremulous  with  indignation.  “ If  you  think  there’s 
anything  dishonest  in  my  accounts,  I wouldn’t  sleep  under  this 
roof  another  night,  though  it’s  been  my  home  near  upon  forty 
year — I w'as  kitchen-maid  in  old  Squire  Tempest’s  time.  No,  I 
wouldn’t  stay  another  hour,  not  to  be  doubted.” 

“ I have  not  questioned  your  honesty,  Trimmer.  The  accounts 
are  honest  enough,  I have  no  doubt,  but  they  show  a most  un- 
justifiable waste  of  money.” 

If  there’s  dissatisfaction  in  your  mind,  sir,  we’d  better  part. 
It’s  always  best  for  both  parties.  I'm  ready  to  go  at  an  hour’s 
notice,  or  to  stay  my  month,  if  it’s  more  convenient  to  my  mis- 
tress.” 

“ You  are  a silly  old  woman,”  said  the  captain.  I don’t 
want  you  to  go.  I am  not  dissatisfied  wdth  you,  but  with  the 
whole  system  of  housekeeping.  There  has  been  a great  deal  too 
much  given  away.” 

“ Not  a loaf  of  bread  without  ray  mistress’s  knowledge,”  cried 
Trimmer.  “I  always  told  Mrs.  Tempest  every  morning  who’d 
been  for  soup,  or  wine,  or  bread — yes,  even  to  broken  victuals — 
the  day  before.  I had  her  leave  and  license  for  all  I did.  ‘ I'm 
not  strong  enough  to  see  to  the  poor  things  myself.  Trimmer,’ 
she  used  to  say,  ‘ but  I want  them  cared  for.  1 leave  it  all  to 
you.’  ” 

“Very  well.  Trimmer.  That  kind  of  thing  must  cease  from 
this  very  hour.  Your  mistress  will  contribute  to  all  the  local 
charities.  She  will  give  the  vicar  an  allowance  of  wine  to  be 
distributed  by  him  in  urgent  eases;  but  this  house  will  no  longer 
be  the  village  larder — ^no  one  is  to  come  to  this  kitchen  for  any- 
thing. 

“ V7hat,  sir? — not  in  case  of  sickness?” 

“ No.  Poor  people  are  always  sick.  It  is  their  normal  state, 
when  there  is  anything  to  be  got  by  sickness,  '^liere  are  hospitals 
and  infirmaries  for  such  cases.  My  house  is  not  to  be  an  infirm- 
ary. ^ Do  you  understand  ?” 

“ Yes,  sh;  I understand  that  everything  is  to  be  different  from 
what  it  was  in  my  late  master’s  time.” 

“Precisely.  Expenses  are  to  be  kept  within  a certain  limit. 


166 


VIXEN. 


They  are  not  to  fluctuate,  as  they  do  in  these  books  of  yours. 
You  must  get  rid  of  two  or  three  women-servants.  There  "are  at 
least  three  too  many.  I am  always  seeing  strange  faces  about 
up-stairs.  One  might  as  well  live  in  a hotel.  Think  it  over. 
Trimmer,  and  make  up  your  mind  as  to  which  you  can  best 
spare,  and  give  them  a month’s  wages  and  pack  them  off.  I 
don’t  care  lo  have  servants  about  me  who  are  under  notice 
to  quit.  They  alwavs  look  sulky.” 

“ Is  that  all,  sir?”  inquired  the  housekeeper,  drying  her  angry 
tears  ui^on  her  linen  apron. 

“ Well,  yes,  that  is  all  at  present.  Stay.  What  wages  has  my 
wife  given  you  ?” 

“ Sixty  pounds  a year,”  replied  Trimmer,  quite  prepared  to  be 
told  that  her  stipend  was  to  be  reduced. 

‘‘Then  I shall  give  you  seventy.” 

At  this  unexpected  grace  Trimmer  began  to  tremble  with  an 
excess  of  indignation.  She  saw  in  this  bounty  a bribe  to  mean- 
ness. 

“ Thank  you,  sir,  but  I have  never  asked  to  have  my  wages 
raised,  and  I am  quite  contented  to  remain  as  I am,”  she  an- 
swered, with  dignity.  “Perhaps,  if  the  ways  of  the  house  are 
to  be  so  much  altered,  I may  not  feel  myself  comfortable 
enough  to  stay.” 

“Oh,  very  well,  my  good  soul;  please  yourself,”  replied  the 
captain,  carelessly;  “ but  remember  what  I have  told  you  about 
cadgers  and  interlopers,  and  get  rid  of  two  or  three  of  those  idle 
young  women.  I shall  examine  your  housekeeping  accounts 
weekly,  and  pay  all  the  trades-people  weekly.” 

“ They  have  not  been  used  to  it,  sir.” 

“ Then  they  must  get  used  to  it.  I shall  pay  every  account 
weekly — corn-merchant  and  all  of  them.  Bring  me  up  your 
book  on  Saturday  morning  at  ten,  and  let  me  have  all  other  ac- 
counts at  the  same  time.” 

Here  was  a revolution.  Trimmer  and  Forbes  and  Pauline  sat 
long  over  their  dinner,  talking  about  the  shipwreck  of  a fine  old 
house. 

“I  knew  that  things  would  be  different,”  said  Pauline,  “but 
I didn’t  think  it  would  be  so  bad  as  this.  I thought  it  would  be 
all  the  other  way,  and  that  there’d  be  grand  doings  and  lots  of 
company.  What  awful  meanness  I Not  a drop  of  soup  to  be 
given  to  a poor  family;  and  I suppose,  if  I ask  my  aunt  and 
uncle  to  stop  to  tea  and  supper,  any  time  that  they  call  to  ask 
how  I am,  it  will  be  against  the  rules.” 

“From  what  I gather,  there’s  not  a bite  or  a sup  to  be  given 
to  mortal,”  said  Mrs.  Trimmer,  solemnly. 

“Well,  thank  Providence,  I can  afford  to  buy  a bit  of  tea  and 
sugar  and  a quartern  loaf  when  a friend  drops  in,”  said  Pauline; 
“but  the  meanness  jsn’t  any  less  disgusting.  He’ll  want  her  to 
sell  her  cast-off  dresses  to  the  second-hand  dealers,  I shouldn’t 
wonder.” 

“And  he’ll  be  asking  for  the  keys  of  the  cellars,  perhaps,” 
said  Forbes,  “ after  I’ve  kept  them  for  five-and-twenty  years.” 


VIXEN. 


167 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  OWNER  OF  BULLFINCH. 

Captain  Carmichael  had  been  master  of  the  Abbey  House 
three  months,  and  there  had  been  no  open  quarrel  between  him 
and  Violet  Tempest.  Vixen  had  been  cold  as  marble,  but  she 
had  been  civil.  For  her  mother  s sake  she  had  held  her  peace. 
She  remembered  what  Roderick  Vawdrey  had  said  about  her 
duty,  and  had  tried  to  do  it,  difficult  as  that  duty  was  to  the 
girl’s  undisciplined  nature.  She  had  even  taken  the  loss  of  Tit- 
mouse very  quietly — her  father’s  first  gift,  the  pony  that  had 
carried  her  when  she  was  a seven-year-old  huntress  with  tawny 
hair  flowing  loose  under  her  little  velvet  toque.  She  gave  no 
expression  to  her  indignation  at  the  sale  of  this  old  favorite,  as 
she  had  done  in  tne  case  of  Bullfinch.  If  she  wept  for  him,  her 
tears  were  shed  in  secret.  She  took  the  sale  of  her  pet  almost 
as  a matter  of  course. 

“The  captain  thinks  we  have  too  many  horses  and  ponies, 
dear;  and  you  know  dear  papa  was  a little  extravagant  about  his 
stables,”  said  her  mother,  apologetically,  when  she  announced 
the  fate  of  Titmouse;  “ but  of  course  Arion  will  always  be  kept 
for  you.” 

“I  am  glad  of  that,  mamma,”  Vixen  answered,  gravely.  “ I 
should  be  sorry  to  part  with  the  last  horse  papa  gave  me,  as  well 
as  with  the  first.” 

To  the  captain  himself  Vixen  said  no  w^ord  about  her  pony, 
and  he  made  no  apology  for,  oi  explanation  of,  his  conducto  He 
acted  as  if  Heaven  had  made  him  lord  of  the  Abbey  House  and 
all  its  belongings  in  his  cradle,  and  as  if  his  wufe  and  her 
daughter  were  accidental  and  subordinate  figures  in  the  scene  of 
his  life. 

Despite  the  era  of  retrenchment  which  the  new  master  h.ad 
inaugurated,  things  at  the  Abbey  House  had  never  been  done 
with  so  much  dignity  and  good  style.  There  had  been  a slipshod 
ease,  an  old-fashioned  liberality  in  the  housekeeping  during  the 
squire's  reign,  which  liad  in  some  measure  approximated  to  the 
popular  idea  of  an  Irish  household.  Now  all  was  done  by  line 
and  rule,  and  according  to  the  latest  standard  of  perfection. 
There  was  no  new  fashion  in  Belgravia — from  a brand  of  Cham- 

Eagne  to  the  shape  of  a menu  holder — which  Captain  Carmichael 
ad  not  at  his  finger-ends.  The  old-style  expensive  heavy  din- 
ners at  the  Abbey  House:  the  monster  salmon  under  whose 
weight  the  serving  man  staggered;  the  sprawling  gigantic  tur- 
bot, arabesqued  with  sliced  lemon  and  barberries;  the  prize  tur- 
key, too  big  for  anything  but  a poultry  show — these  leviathans 
and  megatheria  of  the  market  were  seen  no  more.  In  their 
stead  came  the  subdued  grace  of  the  diner  a la  Russe,  a well- 
chosen  menu,  before  composing  wdiich  Captain  Carmichael 
studied  Gouffe’s  artistic  cookery-book  as  carefully  as  a pious 
Israelite  studies  the  Talmud.  The  new  style  was  as  much  more 
economical  than  the  old  as  it  w^as  more  elegant.  The  table,  with 
the  squire’s  old  silver,  and  fine  dark  blue  and  gold  Worcester 
china,  and  the  captain’s  picturesque  grouping  of  hot-house  ^io^ver3 


168 


VIXEN. 


and  ferns,  was  a study  worthy  of  a painter  of  still  life.  People 
exclaimed  at  the  beauty  of  the  picture.  The  grave  old  dining- 
room was  transformed  from  its  heavy  splendor  to  a modern 
grace  that  delighted  everybody.  Mrs.  Carmichael’s  bosom 
thrilled  with  a gentle  pride  as  she  sat  opposite  her  husband — he 
and  she  facing  each  other  across  the  center  of  the  oval  table — at 
their  first  dinner  party. 

My  love,  I am  delighted  that  you  are  pleased,”  be  said,  after- 
ward, when  she  praised  his  arrangements.  “I  think  I shall  be 
able  to  show  you  tliat  economy  does  not  always  mean  shabbi- 
ness. Our  dinners  shall  not  be  too  frequent,  but  they  shall  l)e 
perfect  after  their  kind.” 

The  captain  made  another  innovation  in  his  wife’s  mode  of  ex- 
istence. Instead  of  a daily  dropping  in  of  her  acquaintance  for 
■'lea  and  gossip,  she  was  to  have  her  afternoon,  like  Lady  Ellan- 
gowan.  A neat  copper- plate  inscription  on  her  visiting-card  told 
her  friends  that  she  w^as  at  home  on  Tuesdaj^s  from  three  to  six, 
and  implied  that  she  was  not  at  home  on  any  other  day.  Mrs. 
Carmichael  felt  her  dignity  enhanced  by  this  arrangement,  and 
the  captain  hoped  thereby  to  put  a stop  to  a good  deal  of  twad- 
dling talk,  and  to  lessen  the  consumption  of  five- shilling  tea, 
pound-cake,  and  cream. 

The  duke  and  duchess  returned  to  Ashbourne  with  Lady  Mabel 
a short  time  before  Christmas,  and  the  duchess  and  her  daughter 
came  to  one  of  Mrs.  Carmichael’s  Tuesday  afternoons,  attended 
by  Roderick  Vawdrey.  They  came  with  an  evident  intention  of 
being  friendly,  and  the  duchess  was  charmed  with  the  old  oak 
hall,  the  wide  hearth  and  Christmas  fire  of  beech  logs,  the  light 
flashing  upon  the  men  in  armor,  and  reflected  here  and  there  on 
the  bees-waxed  panels  as  on  dark  water.  In  this  wintry  dusk 
the  hall  looked  its  best,  dim  gleams  of  color  from  the  old  painted 
glass  mixing  with  the  changeful  glow  of  the  fire. 

“It  reminds  me  a little  of  cur  place  in  Scotland,”  said  the 
duchess,  “ only  this  is  prettier.  It  has  a warmer,  homelier  air. 
All  things  in  Scotland  have  an  all-pervading  stoniness.  It  is  a 
country  overgrown  with  granite.” 

Mrs.  Carmichael  was  delighted  to  be  told  that  her  house  re- 
sembled one  of  the  ducal  abodes. 

“I  dare  say  your  Scotcli  castle  is  much  older  than  this,”  she 
feaid,  deprecatingly.  “ We  only  date  from  Henry  the  Eighth. 
There  was  an  abbey,  built  in  the  time  of  Henry  the  First;  but  I 
am  afraid  there  is  nothing  left  of  that  l)ut  the  archway  leading 
into  the  stables.” 

“Oh,  we  are  dreadfully  ancient  at  Dundromond;’ almost  as 
old  as  the  mountains,  I should  think,”  answered  the  duchess. 
“Our  walls  are  ten  feet  thick,  and  we  have  an  avenue  of 
yew-trees  said  to  be  a thousand  years  old.  But  all  that  does  not 
prevent  the  duke  getting  bronchitis  every  time  he  goes  there.” 

Vixen  was  in  attendance  upon  her  mother,  dressed  in  dark 
green  cloth:  very  much  the  same  kind  of  gown  slie  had  on  that 
day  at  the  kennels,  Rorie  tliought,  remembering  how’  she  looked 
as  she  stood  with  quickened  breath  and  tumbled  hair,  encircled 
by  those  eager,  boisterous  hounds. 


VIXEN. 


169 


If  Landseer  could  have  lived  to  paint  her,  I would  have  given 
a ^mall  fortune  for  the  pictare.”  he  thought,  regretfully. 

Lady  Mabel  was  particularly  gracious  to  Violet.  She  talked 
a X)ut  dogs  and  horses,  even,  in  her  desire  to  let  herself  down  to 
Miss  Tempest’s  level;  about  the  forest;  made  a tentative  remark 
about  point  lace;  asked  Violet  if  she  was  fond  of  Cliopin. 

“I’ni  afraid  I’m  not  enlightened  enough  to  care  so  much  for 
him  as  I ought,”  Vixen  answered,  frankly. 

‘ ‘ Really  I Who  is  your  favorite  composer 

Violet  felt  as  if  she  were  seated  before  one  of  those  awful 
books  which  some  young  ladies  keep  instead  of  albums,  in  which 
the  sorely  tormented  contributor  is  catechised  as  to  his  or  her 
particular  tastes,  distastes,  and  failings. 

“ I think  I like  Mozart  best.” 

‘‘Do  you,  really?”  inquired  Lady  Mabel,  looking  as  if  Violet 
had  sunk  fathoms  lower  in  her  estimation  by  this  avowal.  “ Don’t 
you  think  that  lie  is  dreadfully  tuny  ?” 

“ I like  tunes,”  retorted  Vixen,  determined  not  to  be  put  down. 
“ I’d  rather  have  written  ‘ Voi  che  sapete,’  and  ‘ Batti,  batti,’ 
than  all  Chopin’s  nocturnes  and  mazurkas.” 

“ I think  you  would  [lardly  say  that  if  you  knew  Chopin  bet- 
ter,” said  Lady  Mabel,  gravely,  as  if  she  had  been  gently  reprov- 
ing some  one  for  the  utterance  of  inlidel  opinions.  “ When  are 
you  coming  to  see  our  orchids?'*  she  asked,  graciousl3\  “ Mamma 
is  at  home  on  Thursdays.  I hope  you  and  Mrs.  Carmichael  will 
drive  over  and  look  at  my  new  orchid  house.  Papa  had  it  built 
for  me  with  all  the  latest  improvements.  I’m  sure  you  must  be 
fond  of  orchids,  even  if  you  dont  appreciate  Chopin.” 

Violet  blushed.  Rorie  was  looking  on  with  a malicious  grin. 
He  was  sitting  a little  way  off  in  a low  Glastonbury  chair, 
with  bis  knees  up  to  his  chin,  making  himself  an  image  of 
awkwardness. 

“I  don’t  believe  Violet  cares  twopence  for  the  best  orchid 
you  could  show  her,”  he  said.  “I  don’t  believe  your  Odonto- 
glosmm  vexillarium  would  have  any  more  effect  upon  her  than  it 
has  upon  me.” 

“ Oh,  but  I do  admire  them;  or,  at  least,  I should  admire  them 
immensely,”  remonstrated  Vixen,  “if  I could  see  them  in  their 
native  country.  But  I don’t  know  tliat  I have  ever  thoroughly 
appreciated  them  in  a hot-house,  hanging  from  the  roof,  and 
tumbling  on  to  one’s  nose,  or  shooting  off  their  long  sprays  at  a 
tangent  into  awkward  corners.  I’m  afraid  I like  the  blue-bells 
and  fox-gloves  in  our  inclosures  ever  so  much  better.  I have 
seen  the  banks  in  New  Park  one  sheet  of  vivid  blue  with  hya- 
cinths, one  blaze  of  crimson  with  fox-gloves;  and  then  there  are 
the  long  green  swamps,  where  millions  of  marsh- marigolds  sh.ine 
like  pools  of  liquid  gold.  If  I could  see  orchids  blooming  like 
that,  I should  be  charmed  with  them.” 

“You  paint,  of  course,”  said  Lady  Mabel.  “Wild  flowers 
make  delightful  studies,  do  they  not?” 

Vixen  blushed  violently. 

“ 1 can  paint  a little  bit,”  she  said.  “ 1 am  a dreadfully  unac- 
complished person.” 


170 


VIXEN. 


“That’s  not  true,”  remonstrated  Rorie.  “She  sketches  capi- 
tally  in  pen  and  ink — dogs,  horses,  trees,  everything,  dashed  off 
with  no  end  of  spirit.” 

Here  the  duchess,  who  had  been  describing  the  most  conspic- 
uous costumes  at  the  German  baths,  to  the  delight  of  Mrs. 
Carmichael,  rose  to  go,  and  Lady  Mabel,  with  her  graceful,  well- 
drilled  air,  rose  immediately. 

“We  shall  be  so  glad  to  see  you  at  Ashbourne,”  she  mur- 
mured, sweetly,  giving  Violet  her  slim  little  hand  in  its  pearl- 
gray  glov-e. 

She  was  dressed  from  head  to  foot  in  artistically  blended 
shades  of  gray — a most  unpretending  toilet. 

Vixen  acknowledged  her  graciousness  politely,  but  without 
any  warmth;  and  it  would  hardly  have  done  for*  Lady  Mabel  to 
have  known  what  Miss  Tempest  said  to  herself  when  the  Dove- 
dale  barouclie  had  driven  round  the  curve  of  the  shrubbery, with 
Rorie  smiling  at  her  from  his  place  as  it  vanished. 

“ I am  afrai  l I have  a wicked  tendency  to  detest  people,”  said 
Vixen,  inwardlj^.  “ I feel  almost  as  bad  about  Lady  Mabel  as  I 
do  about  Captain  Carmichael.” 

“ Are  they  not  nice?”  asked  Mrs.  Carmichael,  gushingly. 

“Trimmer’s  drop-cakes?”  said  Vixen,  who  was  standing  by 
the  tea-table  munching  a dainty  little  biscuit.  “Yes,  they  are 
al  way  s capital.  ” 

“ Nonsense,  Violet;  I mean  the  duchess  and  her  daughter.” 

Vixen  yawned  audibly. 

“ I’m  glad  you  did  not  find  the  duchess  insupportably  dreary,” 
she  said.  “ Lady  Mabel  weighed  me  down  like  a nightmare.” 

“ Oh,  Violet!  when  she  behaved  so  sweetly — quite  caressingly, 
I thought.  You  really  ought  to  cultivate  her  friendship.  It 
would  be  so  nice  for  you  to  visit  at  Ashbourne.  You  would 
have  such  opportunities ” 

“ Of  doing  what,  mamma?  Hearing  polonaises  and  mazurkas 
in  seven  double  fiats;  or  seeing  orchids  with  names  as  long  as  a 
German  compound  adjective?” 

“ Opportunities  of  being  seen  and  admired  by  young  men  of 
position,  Violet.  Sooner  or  later  the  time  must  come  for  you  to 
think  of  marrying.” 

“That  time  will  never  come,  mamma.  I shall  stay  at  home 
with  you  till  you  are  tired  of  me,  and  when  you  turn  me  out  I 
will  have  a cottage  in  the  heart  of  the  forest — upon  some  wild 
ridge  topped  with  a hat  of  firs — and  good  old,M’Croke  to  take  care 
of  me;  and  I will  spend  my  days  botanizing  and  fem-hunting, 
riding  and  walking,  and  perhaps  learn  to  paint  my  favorite  trees, 
and  live  as  happily  and  remote  from  mankind  as  the  herons  in 
their  nests  at  the  top  of  the  tall  beeches  on  Vinny  Ridge.” 

“ I am  very  glad  there  is  no  one  present  to  hear  you  talk  like 
that,  Violet,”  Mrs.  Carmichael  said,  gravely. 

“Why,  mamma?” 

“ Because  any  bod  3^  hearing  you  might  suppose  you  were  not 
quite  right  in  your  mind.” 

The  duchess’s  visit  put  Mrs.  Carmichael  in  good  humor  with 
all  the  world,  but  especially  with  Roderick  Vawdrey.  She  sent 


VIXEN. 


171 


^^m  an  invitation  to  her  next  dinner,  and  when  her  husband 
seemed  inclined  to  strike  his  name  out  of  her  list,  she  defended 
her  right  of  selection  with  a courage  that  wa^  almost  heroic. 

“ I can’t  understand  your  motive  for  asking  this  fellow,”  the 
captain  said,  with  a blacker  look  than  his  wife  had  ever  before 
seen  on  his  countenance. 

“Why  should  I not  ask  him,  Conrad?  I have  known  him 
ever  since  he  was  at  Eton,  and  the  dear  squire  was  very  fond 
of  him.” 

“ If  you  are  going  to  choose  your  acquaintance  in  accordance 
with  the  taste  of  your  first  husband,  it  will  be  rather  a bad  look** 
out  for  your  second,”  said  the  captain. 

“ V/hat  objection  can  you  have  to  Roderick  ?” 

“ I can  have,  and  I have,  a very  strong  objection  to  him.  But 
I am  not  going  to  talk  about  it  yet  awhile.” 

“ But,  Conrad,  if  there  is  anything  I ought  to  know ” be: 

gan  Mrs.  Carmichael,  alarmed. 

“When  I think  you  ought  to  know  it,  you  will  be  told,  my 
dear  Pamela.  In  the  meantime  allows  me  to  have  my  own 
opinion  about  Mr.  Vavvdrey.” 

“But,  Conrad,  in  dear  Edward’s  time  he  used  to  come  to  this 
house  whenever  he  liked,  as  if  he  had  been  a near  relation. 
And  he  is  the  duchess’s  nephew,  remember;  and  wlien  he  mar- 
ries Lady  Mabel,  and  the  duke  dies,  he  will  be  one  of  the  largest 
landowners  in  South  Hampshire.” 

“ Very  well,  let  him  come  to  your  dinner.  It  can  make  very 
little  difference.” 

“ Now  you  are  offended,  Conrad,”  said  Mrs.  Carmichael,  with 
a deprecating  air. 

“ No,  I am  not  offended;  but  I have  my  own  opinion  as  to 
your  wisdom  in  giving  any  encouragement  to  Mr.  Vawdrey.” 

This  sounded  mysterious  and  made  Mrs.  Carmichael  uncom- 
fortable. But  she  was  determined  not  to  offend  the  duchess, 
who  had  been  so  particularly  gracious,  and  who  had  sent  Cap- 
tain and  Mrs.  Carmichael  a card  for  a dinner  to  be  given  early 
in  January. 

So  Roderick  got  his  invitation,  and  accepted  it  with  friendly 
promptitude.  He  was  master  of  the  hounds  now,  and  a good 
many  of  his  days  were  given  up  to  the  pleasures  of  the  hunting 
field.  He  was  an  importaat  person  in  his  way,  full  of  business  ; 
but  he  generally  found  time  to  drop  in  for  half  an  hour  on  Mrs. 
Carmichael’s  Tuesday  afternoons,  to  lounge  with  his  back 
against  the  m^sive  oaken  chimney-breast  and  talk  to  Violet  or 
pat  Argus  while  the  lady  visitors  gossiped  and  tittered  over  their 
tea-cups. 

This  last  dinner  of  Mrs.  Carmichael’s  was  to  take  place  a few 
days  before  Christmas,  and  w-as  to  be  given  in  honor  of  a guest 
who  was  coming  to  spend  the  holidays  at  the  Abbey  House.  The 
guest  was  Captain  Carmichael’s  Irish  friend,  Lord  Mallow,  the 
owner  of  Bullfinch. 

Vixen’s  heart  gave  an  indignant  bound  when  she  heard  that 
be  was  coming. 

Another  person  for  me  to  hate,”  she  said  to  herself,  almost 


173 


VIXEN. 


despairingly.  T am  becoming  a mass  envy,  hatred,  and 
malice,  and  all  uncharitableness.” 

Lord  Mallow  had  spent  the  early  morning  of  life  in  the  army, 
it  appeared,  a younger  son,  with  no  particular  expectations.  He 
and  Captain  Carmichael  had  been  brother  officers.  But  the  fell 
sergeant.  Death,  had  promoted  Patrick  Hay  to  his  elder  brotiier’s 
heritage,  and  he  had  surrendered  a subaltern’s  place  in  a line 
regiment  to  become  Viscount  Mallow,  and  the  owner  of  a fine 
stretch  of  fertile  hill  and  valley  in  County  Cork.  He  had  set  up 
at  once  as  the  model  landlord,  eager  for  his  tenantry’s  welfare, 
full  of  a.dvanced  ideas,  a violent  politician,  liberal  to  the  verge  of 
radicalism.  If  the  Irish  Church  had  not  been  disestablished 
before  Lord  Mallow  went  into  Parliament,  he  would  have  grip- 
ped his  destructive  ax  and  had  a chop  or  two  at  the  root  of  that 
fine  old  tree.  Protestant,  and  loyal  to  the  Church  of  England  in 
his  own  person — so  far  as  such  loyalty  may  be  testified  by  regu- 
lar attendance  at  divine  service  every  Sunday  morning,  and  a 
gentlemanlike  reverence  for  bishops — it  seemed  to  him  not  the 
less  an  injustice  that  his  native  land  should  be  taxed  with  the 
maintenance  of  an  alien  clergy. 

The  late  Lord  Mallow  had  been  a violent  Tory,  Orange  to  the 
marrow  of  his  bones.  The  new  Lord  Mallow  was  violently  pro- 
gressive, enthusiastic  in  his  belief  in  Hibernian  virtues  and  his 
indignation  at  Hibernian  wrongs.  He  wanted  to  disestablish 
everything.  He  saw  his  country  as  she  appears  in  the  eyes  of 
her  poets  and  song- writers — a fair  disheveled  female,  oppressed 
by  tiie  cruel  Sassenach,  a lovely  sufferer  for  whose  rescue  all 
true  men  and  leal  would  fight  to  the  death.  He  quoted  the  out- 
rages of  Elizabeth’s  reign,  the  cruelties  of  Cromwell’s  soldiery, 
the  savagery  of  Ginkle,  as  if  those  wrongs  liad  been  inflicted 
yesterday,  and  the  House  of  Commons  of  to-day  were  answer- 
able  for  them.  He  made  fiery  speeches,  which  were  reported  at 
length  in  the  Irish  newspapers.  He  was  a fine  speaker,  after  a 
florid  pattern,  and  had  a great  command  of  voice,  and  a certain 
rugged  eloquence  that  carried  his  Ii  arers  along  with  him,  even 
when  he  was  harping  upon  so  hackneyed  a string  as  the  wrongs 
of  ‘‘  Quid  Ireland.” 

Lord  Mallow  was  not  thirty,  and  he  looked  younger  than  his 
years.  He  was  tall  and  broad-shouldered,  robust,  and  a trifle 
clumsy  in  figure,  and  rode  fourteen  stone.  He  had  a good- 
looking  Irish  face,  smiling  blue  eyes,  black  hair,  white  teetu, 
bushy  whiskers,  and  a complexion  inclining  to  rosiness. 

“He  is  the  perfection  of  a commonplace  young  man,”  Vixen 
said,  when  she  talked  him  over  with  her  mother  on  the  day  of 
his  arrival  at  the  Abbey  House. 

“Come,  Violet,  you  must  admit  that  he  is  very  handsome,” 
remonstrated  Mrs.  Carmichael,  who  was  sitting  before  her  dress- 
ing-room fire  with  her  feet  on  a fender  stool  of  her  own  crewel- 
work,  waiting  for  Pauline  to  commence  the  important  ceremony 
of  dressing  for  dinner.  “ I think  I never  saw  a finer  set  of  teeth, 
and  of  course  at  his  age  they  must  all  be  real.” 

“ Unless  he  has  had  a few  of  the  original  ones  knocked  out  in 


VIXEN. 


173 


the  hunting-field,  mamma.  They  go  over  a good  many  stone 
walls  in  Ireland,  you  know,  and  l.e  may  have  come  to  grief.” 

If  you  would  only  leave  off  talking  in  that  horrid  way,  Vio- 
let. He  is  a very  agreeable  young  man.  How  be  enjoyed  a cup 
of  tea  after  his  journey,  instead  of  wanting  soda-water  and 
brandy  I Conrad  tells  me  he  has  a lovely  place  near  Mallow— on 
the  slope  of  a hill,  sheltered  on  the  north  with  pine  woods;  and 
I believe  it  is  one  of  the  prettiest  parts  of  Ireland— so  green  and 
fertile  and  sweet,  and  such  a happy  peasantry.” 

“I  think  I’d  better  leave  you  to  dress  for  dinner,  mamma. 
You  like  a clear  hour,  and  it’s  nearly  half -past  six.” 

‘•True,  love;  you  may  ring  for  Pauline.  I have  been  waver- 
ing between  my  black  and  maize  and  my  amethyst  velvet,  but  I 
think  I shall  decide  upon  the  velvet.  What  are  you  going  to 
w^ear  ?” 

“ I?— oh,  anything.  The  dress  I wore  last  night.” 

“ My  love,  it  is  positively  dowdy.  Pray  wear  something  better 
in  honor  of  Lord  Mallows  There  is  tlie  dress  you  had  for  my 
wedding,”  suggested  Mrs.  Carmichael,  blushing.  “ You  look 
lovely  in  that.” 

“Mamma,  do  you  think  I’m  going  to  make  a second-hand 
bride-maid  of  myself  to  oblige  Lord  Mallow  ? No;  that  dress  too 
painfully  bears  tlie  stamp  of  what  it  was  made  for.  I’m  afraid 
it  w’ill  have  to  rot  in  the  wardrobe  where  it  hangs.  If  it  w^ere 
wcolen,  the  moths  would  inevitably  have  it;  but  I suppose,  as  it 
is  silk,  it  will  survive  the  changes  of  time,  and  some  day  it  will 
be  made  into  cliair  covers,  and  future  generations  of  Tempests 
will  point  to  it  as  a relic  of  my  great-aunt  Violet.” 

“I  never  heard  anything  so  absurd,”  cried  Mrs.  Carmicha.el, 
fretfully.  “ It  was  Theodore’s  chef-dceuvre,  and  no  doubt  I shall 
have  to  pay  an  awfful  price  for  it.” 

“Ah,  mamma,  are  continually  doing  things  for  which  we 
have  to  pay  an  awful  price,”  said  Vixen,  with  one  of  her  invol* 
imtary  bursts  of  bitter  sadness. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

SOIVIETHING  LIKE  A RIDE. 

It  was  impossible  to  go  on  hating  Lord  Mallow  forever.  He 
was  a man  wb.ose  overflowing  good  nature  would  have  concilia- 
ted the  bitterest  foe,  could  that  enemy  have  been  exposed  long 
enough  to  its  softening  influence.  He  came  upon  the  dull  daily 
life  of  the  Abbey  House  like  a burst  of  sudden  sunshine  on  a 
gloomy  plain.  The  long  winter  evenings,  when  tliere  was  no 
company,  liad  been  sorely  oppressive  to  Vixen.  Out  of  respect 
to  her  mother  she  had  kept  her  place  in  the  drawing-room,  read- 
ing, or  working  at  some  uninteresting  strip  of  point  lace,  which 
she  had  no  hope  of  ever  finishing,  though  it  had  been  promised 
to  Mr.  Scobel  for  his  church.  Captain  Carmichael  read  newspa- 
pers or  the  quarterlies,  or  paced  the  room  thoughtfully  at  inter- 
vals. He  talked  to  his  wife  just  enough  to  escape  the  charge  of 
neglect,  but  rarely  spoke  to  or  noticed  Violet.  Sometimes  Mrs. 
Carmichael  asked  for  a little  music,  whereupon  Violet  went  to 


174 


VIXEN. 


the  piano  and  played  her  scanty  recollections  of  Mozart  or  Bee- 
thoven—all  “ tuny  ” bits,  remembered  out  of  the  sonatas  or  con- 
certos Miss  M'Croke  had  taught  her;  or  if  asked  to  sing,  the  girl 
sang  a ballad  or  two,  to  order,  in  her  full  round  mezzo-soprano, 
which  had  a thrilJing  expression  at  times,  when  feeling  got  the 
better  of  her  proud  reserve,  and  all  the  pent-up  sorrow  of  her 
heart  broke  loose  into  her  song.  But  Captain  Carmichael  took 
no  notice  of  these  efforts,  and  even  her  mother’s  praises  were 
not  enthusiastic.  ‘‘  Very  sweet,  very  nice,”  was  the  most  Vixen 
ever  heard  from  those  maternal  lips  as  she  closed  the  piano. 

But  liere  was  Lord  Mallow,  passionately  fond  of  music  and 
singing,  and  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  all  things  that  appeal  to 
the  sensitive  Hibernian  character.  It  seemed  a new  thing  to 
Violet  to  have  some  one  standing  by  the  piano,  turning  over  the 
leaves,  applauding  rapturously,  and  entreating  for  another  and 
yet  another  Irisli  melody.  When  she  sang  “ The  Minstrel  Boy,” 
he  joined  in  with  a rich  barytone  that  harmonized  finely  with 
her  full  ripe  notes.  The  old  room  vibrated  with  the  strong 
melody,  and  even  Captain  Carmichael  was  impelled  to  praise. 

“ How  well  your  voices  harmonize!”  he  said.  ‘‘You  ought  to 
try  some  duets.  I remember  that  fine  barvtone  of  yours  in  days 
of  old,  Mallow.” 

Hereupon  Lord  Mallow  asked  Miss  Tempest  if  she  had  any 
duets,  and  Vixen  produced  her  small  stock  of  vocal  music. 
They  tried  one  or  two  of  Mendelssohn’s-  ‘ ‘ I would  that  my  Love,” 
and  “Greeting” — and  discovered  that  they  got  on  wonderfully 
well  together.  Vixen  fell  asleep  that  night  wondering  at  her 
own  amiability. 

“To think  that  I should  sing  sentimental  duets  with  him!”  she 
said  to  herself.  “ The  man  who  has  Bullfinch.” 

Lord  Mallow’s  presence  at  the  Abbey  House  had  a marked 
effect  upon  Captain  Carmichael’s  treatment  of  his  step-daughter. 
Hitherto  there  had  been  a veiled  bitterness  in  all  his  speeches,  a 
constrained  civility  in  his  manners.  Now  he  was  all  kindness, 
all  expansion.  Even  his  wife,  who  admired  him  always,  and 
thought  him  the  soul  of  wisdom  in  all  he  did,  could  not  be  blind 
to  the  change,  and  a new  sense  of  peacefulness  stole  into  her. 
feeble  mind.  It  was  so  pleasant  to  see  dear  Conrad  so  sweetly 
kind  to  Violet. 

“ V/hat  are  we  going  to  do  with  Lord  Mallow  this  morning, 
Violet?”  asked  the  captain,  at  breakfast.  “We  must  try  to 
amuse  him  somehow^” 

“I  don't  think  I have  much  to  do  with  it,”  Vixen  answered, 
toldly.  “You  will  find  plenty  of  amusement,  I dare  say,  in  the 
ciilliard-room,  iu  the  stables,  or  in  showing  Lord  Mallow  your 
improvements.” 

“ That  would  do  very  well  for  a wet  morning,  but  it  would  be 
a profligate  waste  of  fine  weather.  No;  I propose  that  you 
should  show  Mallow  some  of  the  prettiest  bits  in  the  Forest.  I 
am  not  half  so  accomplished  a guide  as  you,  but  we‘11  all  go. 
I’ll  order  the  horses  at  once  if  you  like  niy  plan.  Mallow,”  said 
Captain  Carmichael,  turning  to  his  friend,  and  taking  Violet’s 
consent  for  granted. 


VIXEN. 


175 


“ I shall  be  quite  too  delighted  if  Miss  Tempest  will  honor  us 
with  her  company,”  replied  the  Irishman,  with  a pleasant  look 
at  Vixen’s  fresh  moruing  face,  rosy-red  with  vexation. 

It  was  the  first  time  her  step-father  had  ever  asked  her  to  ride 
with  him,  aud  she  hated  doing  it.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
ever  been  asked  to  ride  with  any  one  but  her  father  or  Roderick 
Vawdrey.  Yet  to  refuse  would  have  been  impossible  without 
absolute  discourtesy  to  her  mother’s  husband  and  her  mother’s 
guest.  So  she  sat  m her  place  and  said  nothing,  and  Lord  Mal- 
low mistook  the  angry  carnation  for  the  warm  red  of  happy 
girlhood,  which  blushes  it  knows  not  wherefore. 

Captain  Carmichael  ordered  the  horses  to  be  at  the  door  in 
half  an  hour,  and  then  he  took  Lord  Mallow  off  to  look  at  the 
stables,  while  Violet  ^vent  up-stairs  to  put  on  her  habit.  Why 
was  the  captain  so  unusually  amiable?  she  speculated.  Was  his 
little  soul  so  mean  that  be  put  on  better  manners  to  do  honor 
to  an  Irish  peer? 

She  came  trijiping  down  the  wide  old  staircase  at  the  end  of 
the  halt  hour,  in  habit  and  hat  of  Lincoln -green,  with  a cock’s 
feather  in  the  neat  little  hat,  and  a formidable  hooked  hunting- 
crop  for  opening  gates,  little  feet  daintily  shod  in  patent-leather, 
but  no  spur.  She  loved  her  horse  too  well  to  run  a net'dle  into 
his  sleek  hide  at  the  slightest  provocation. 

There  were  three  horses,  held  by  Bates  and  Lord  Mallow’s 
groom.  Bullfinch,  looking  as  if  he  had  just  taken  a prize  at  Is- 
lington, and  was  jnclined  to  be  bumptious  about  it;  Arion,  toss- 
ing his  delicately -modeled  Greek  head,  and  looking  for  bogies 
in  the  adjacent  shrubbery;  Captain  Carmichael’s  well-seasoned 
hunter  Mosstrooper,  nodding  his  long  bony  head,  and  swaying 
his  fine-drawn  neck  up  and  down,  in  a half-savage,  half-scorn- 
ful manner,  as  if  he  were  at  war  with  society  in  general,  like 
the  Miller  of  Dee. 

Vixen,  who  had  looked  the  picture  of  vexation  at  the  break- 
fast-table, was  now  all  gayety.  Her  hazel  eyes  sparkled  with 
mischief.  Lord  Mallow  stood  in  the  porch,  watching  her  as  she 
came  down  the  shining  oak  staircase,  glorious  in  the  winter  sun- 
light, He  thought  her  the  perfection  of  a woman — nay,  more 
than  a woman,  a goddess.  Diana,  the  divine  huntress,  must 
have  looked  so,  he  fancied.  He  ran  forward  to  mount  her  on 
the  fidgety  Arion;  but  honest  old  Bates  was  too  quick  for  him, 
and  she  was  looking  down  at  Lord  Mallow  graciously  from  her 
perch  on  the  well-worn  doeskin  saddle  before  he  had  time  to 
offer  his  services. 

She  leaned  over  to  pat  Bullfinch’s  massive  crest* 

“ Dear  old  horse,”  she  murmured,  tenderly,  remembering  those 
winter  mornings  of  old  when  he  had  stood  before  the  porch 
as  he  stood  to-day,  waiting  for  the  noble  rider  who  was  never 
more  to  mount  him. 

“ Yet  life  goes  on  somehow  without  our  beloved  dead,”  thought 
Violet. 

Her  changeful  face  saddened  at  the  thought,  and  she  rode 
along  the  shrubberied  drive  in  silence. 

“ Where  are  you  going  to  take  us?”  asked  the  captain^  when 


176 


VIXEN. 


they  had  emerged  from  the  Abbey  House  grounds, crossed  the 
coach  road,  and  made  their  plunge  into  the  first  cart  track  that 
offered  itself. 

“Everwbere,”  answered  Vixen,  with  a mischievous  laugh. 

You  have  chosen  me  fof  your  guide,  and  all  you  have  to  do  is 
to  follow.’^ 

And  she  gave  Arion  a light  touch  with  her  hunting-crop,  and 
cantered  gayly  down  the  gently  sloping  track  to  a green  lawn, 
which  looked,  to  Captain  Carmichael’s  experienced  eye,  very 
much  like  a quaky  bog. 

“Steer  toward  your  left,”  he  cried,  anxiously,  to  Lord  Mallow. 

If  there  was  danger  near,  Vixen  managed  to  avoid  it;  she 
made  a sweeping  curve,  skirted  the  treacherous  looking  lawn, 
and  disappeared  in  another  cart  track,  between  silvery  trunks  of 
veteran  beeches,  self-sown  in  the  dark  ages,  with  here  and  there 
a gnarled  old  oak,  rugged  and  lichen-mantled,  with  feathery 
tufts  of  fern  nestling  in  the  hollow  places  between  his  gaunt 
limbs. 

That  was  a ride!  Lord  Mallow  could  remember  nothing  like 
it,  and  he  was  destined  to  carry  this  in  his  memory  for  a life- 
time. The  ghostly  trees;  the  silver-shining  bark  of  the  beeches,' 
varying  with  a hundred  indescribable  shades  of  green  and  purple 
and  warmest  umber;  the  rugged  gray  of  the  grand  old  oaks;  the 
lichens  and  mosses,  and  mysterious  wintry  growths  of  toad-stool 
and  weed  and  berry;  that  awful  air  of  unearthliness  which  per- 
vaded the  thicker  portions  of  the  wood,  as  of  some  mystic  under- 
world— half  shadov/  and  half  dream.  No;  Lord  Mallow  could 
never  forget  it,  nor  yet  the  way  that  flying  figure  in  Lincoln- 
green  led  them  by  bog  and  swamp;  over  clay  and  gravel, 
through  as  many  varieties  of  soil  as  if  she  had  been  trying  to 
give  them  a practical  lesson  in  geology;  across  snaky  ditches 
and  pebbly  fords;  through  furze  bushes  and  thickets  of  holly; 
through  everything  likely  to  prove  aggravating  to  the  temper  of 
a well-bred  horse;  and  finally,  before  giving  them  breathing- 
time, she  led  them  up  the  clayey  side  of  a hill  as  steep  as  a house, 
on  the  top  of  which  she  drew  rein,  and  commandad  them  to  ad- 
mire the  view. 

“This  is  Acres  Down,  and  there  are  the  Needles,”  she  said, 
pointing  her  whip  at  the  dim  blue  horizon.  “ If  it  were  a clear 
clay,  and  your  sight  were  long  enough,  I dare  say  you  v.muld  see 
Jersey,  Guernsey,  Alderney,  and  Sark.  But  I think  to-day  you 
must  be  content  with  the  Needles.  Can  you  see  them  she 
asked  Lord  Mallow. 

“See  theml^’  exclaimed  the  Irishman.  “I  can  see  well 
enough  to  thread  one  of  them  if  I wanted.” 

“ Now  you’ve  seen  the  Isle  of  Wight.”  said  Vixen.  “ That’s  a 
point  accomplished.  The  ardent  desire  of  every  one  in  the  For- 
est is  to  see  the  Isle  of  Wight.  They  are  continually  mounting 
bills  and  gazing  into  space  in  order  to  get  a glimpse  at  that 
chalky  little  island.  It  seems  the  main  object  of  everybody's 
existence.” 

“They  might  as  well  go  and  live  there  at  once,  if  they’re  so 
fond  of  it,”  suggested  Lord  Mallo^^. 


VIXEN. 


177 


‘‘Yes;  and  then  they  would  be  straining  their  eyes  in  the 
eudeavorto  see  the  Great  Horse — that’s  a group  of  firs  on  the  top 
of  a hill,  and  one  of  ottr  Forest  sea-marks.  That  frantic  desire 
to  behold  distant  objects  has  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  one  of 
the  feeblest  tendencies  of  the  human  mind.  Now  you  have  seen 
the  Needles,  we  have  accomplished  a solemn  duty,  and  I may 
show  you  our  woods.” 

Vixen  shook  her  rein  and  trotted  recklessly  down  a slippery 
path,  jumped  a broad  black  puddle,  and  plunged  into  the  re- 
cesses of  the  wood,  Bullfinch  and  Mosstrooper  following  meekly. 

They  went  a wonderful  round,  v/inding  in  and  out  of  Bratley 
Wood,  piercing  deep  into  the  wintry  glories  of  Mark  Ash; 
through  mud  and  moss  and  soft  pitfalls,  where  the  horses  sank 
up  to  their  hocks  in  withered  leaves,  avoiding  bogs  by  a margin 
of  a yard  or  so;  up  and  down  under  spreading  branches,  where 
the  cattle  line  but  just  cleared  the  heads  of  the  riders;  across 
the  blackened  bracken;  by  shining  hollies,  whose  silvery  trunks 
stood  up  like  oh.elisks  out  of  a thicket  of  dwarf  bushes;  through 
groves  where  the  tall  beech  trunks  had  a solemn  look  like  the 
columns  of  some  gigantic  temple;  then  into  wondrous  planta- 
tions of  Scotch  firs,  where  the  air  was  balmy  as  in  summer,  and 
no  breath  of  the  December  wind  penetrated  the  dense  vvall  of 
foliage.  Then  to  higher  ground,  where  the  wintry  air  blew 
keen  again,  and  where  there  were  a soft  green  lawn,  studded 
with  gi  aceful  conifers — cyj)ress,  deoclora,  Douglass  fir — tall  with 
a growth  of  thiiTy  years;  the  elegant  importations  of  an 
advanced  civilization;  Anon  by  the  gray-lincbened  wails  of  a 
deserted  garden,  which  had  a strangely  romantic  look,  and  was 
as  suggestive  of  a dreamy  idjdlic  world  as  a poem  by  Tennyson; 
and  so  down  into  the  green  and  gray  depths  of  Mark  Ash  again, 
but  never  returning  over  the  same  ground;  and  then  up 
the  hill  to  Vinny  Ridge  and  the  Heronry,  where  Cap- 
tain Carmichael  cracked  his  whip  to  scare  the  herons, 
and  had  the  satisfaction  of  scaring  his  own  and  the 
other  two  horses,  while  the  herons  laughed  him  to  scorn  from 
their  cradles  in  the  tree-tops,  and  would  not  stir  a feather  for 
his  gratification.  Then  by  a long  plantation  to  a wild  stretch  of 
common,  where  Vixen  told  her  companions  that  they  were  safe 
for  a good  while,  and  set  them  an  example  by  starting  Arion 
across  the  short,  smooth  turf  at  a gallop.  They  pulled  up  just 
in  time  to  escape  a small  gulf  of  moss  and  general,  sponginess, 
waded  a stream  or  two,  splashed  through  a good  deal  of  spewy 
ground,  and  came  to  Queen’s  Bower;  thence  into  the  oak  planta- 
tion of  New  Park;  then  across  Gretnam  Wood;  and  then  at  a 
smart  trot  along  the  road  toward  home. 

“ I hope  I haven’t  kept  you  out  too  long?”  said  Vixen,  politely. 

“ We’ve  only  been  five  hours,”  answered  the  captain,  with 
grim  civility;  “ but  if  Mallow  is  not  tired,  I shall  not  complain.” 

“ I never  enjoyed  anything  so  much  in  my  life — never,” 
protested  Lord  Mallow, 

Well,  to-morrow  we  can  shoot  the  pheasants.  It  will  be  a 
rest  after  this.” 


178  VIXEN. 

“It  will  be  dull  work  after  the  enchantments  of  to-day,”  said 
the  Irishman. 

Captain  Carmichael  rode  homeward  a few  paces  in  the  rear  of 
the  other  two,  smiling  to  himself  grimly,  and  humming  a little 
cong  of  Heine’s: 

“ Es  ist  eine  alte  Geschichte, 

Dock  blibt  es  immer  neu.’* 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

EORIE  OBJECTS  TO  DUETS. 

Mrs.  Carmichael’s  little  dinner  went  off  smoothly  and  pleas- 
antly, as  all  such  entertainments  had  done  under  the  new  regime. 
The  captain  knew  how  to  select  his  guests  as  well  as  he  knew 
how  to  compose  a menu.  People  felt  pleased  with  themselves 
and  with  their  neighbors  at  his  table.  There  was  nothing  heavy 
in  the  dinner  or  in  the  conversation;  there  were  no  long  sittings 
over  old  port  or  particular  claret.  The  wines  were  of  the  first 
quality,  but  there  was  no  fuss  made  about  them.  Colonel  Car- 
teret remembered  how  he  and  the  squire  had  sat  prosing  over 
their  port  or  Chateau  Margaux,  and  felt  as  if  he  were  living  in  a 
new  world — a world  in  which  full-blooded  friendship  and  bois- 
terous hospitality  were  out  of  fashion.  People  whose  talk  had 
hitherto  been  intensely  local,  confined  for  the  most  part  to  petty 
sessions,  commoners’  rights,  hunting,  and  the  parish  church  and 
schools,  found  themselves  discussing  the  widest  range  of  topics, 
from  the  prospect  of  a European  war — that  European  war  which 
has  been  impending  more  or  less  distinctly  for  the  last  twenty 
years — to  the  latest  social  scandal  in  the  upper  currents  of  Lon- 
don society.  Captain  and  Mrs.  Carmichael’s  country  friends, 
inspired  by  one  or  two  clever  young  men  just  imported  from  the 
London  clubs,  were  surprised  to  discover  how  well  they  were 
able  to  criticise  the  latest  productions  in  literature,  art,  and  the 
drama,  the  newest  results  of  scientific  investigation,  or  the  last 
record  of  African  or  Centi-al  Asian  exploration.  It  was  quite  de- 
lightful to  quiet  country  people,  who  went  to  London  on  an 
average  once  in  three  years,  to  find  themselves  talking  so  easily 
about  the ‘last  famous  picture,  the  latest  action  for  libel  in  ar- 
tistic circles,  or  the  promised  adaptation  of  Sardou’s  last  com- 
edy at  a West  End  theater — just  as  glibly  as  if  they  knew  all 
about  art.  and  liad  read  every  play  of  Sardou’s. 

Roderick  Vawdrey  enjoyed  himself  wonderfully  at  this  partic- 
ular dinner  party  so  long  as  the  dinner  lasted,  for  Captain  Car- 
michael, by  an  oversight  which  made  him  in  wal'd  ly  savage  all 
dinner-time,  had  placed  Mr.  Tawdrey  and  Miss  Tempest  side  by 
side.  There  had  been  some  confusion  in  his  mind  as  he  finished 
his  plan  of  the  table,  his  attention  having  been  called  away  at 
the  last  moment,  or  this  thing  could  not  have  happened;  for 
nothing  was  further  from  Captain  Carmichael’s  intention  than 
that  Violet  and  her  old  playfellow  should  be  happy  in  each 
other’s  society.  And  there  they  sat,  smiling  and  sparkling  at 
each  other  in  the  exuberance  of  youth  and  high  spirits,  inter- 
changing little  confidential  remarks  that  were  doubtless  to  tho 


VIXEN. 


379 


disparagement  of  some  person  or  persons  in  tlie  assemb^.  If 
dark  electric  glances  shot  from  the  covert  of  bent  brows  could 
have  slain  those  two  happy  triflers,  assuredly  neither  of  them 
would  have  lived  to  the  end  of  that  dinner. 

“ How  do  you  like  him  ?”  asked  Rorie.  stooping  to  sniff  at  the 
big  Marslial  Niel  bud  in  the  specimen  glass  by  his  plate. 

“Whom?” 

“ The  man  who  has  Bullfinch.” 

Lord  Mallow  was  in  the  place  of  honor  next  his  hostess.  In- 
voluntarily Violet  glanced  in  that  direction,  and  was  startled  to 
find  the  Irishman’s  good-humored  gaze  meeting  hers,  iust  as  if 
he  had  been  watching  her  for  the  last  half  hour. 

“ How  do  I like  him  ? Well,  he  seems  very  good-natured.” 

“Seems  good-natured!  You  ought  to  be  able  to  give  me  a 
more  definite  answer  by  this  time.  You  liave  lived  in  the  same 
house  with  him — let  me  see,  is  it  three  or  four  days  since  he 
came  ?” 

“ He  has  been  here  nearly  a week,” 

“A  week!  Why,  then  you  must  know  him  as  well  as  if  he 
were  your  brother.  There  is  no  man  living  who  could  keep 
himself  dark  for  a week.  No;  I don’t  believe  the  most  inscrut- 
able of  men,  born  and  bred  in  diplomatic  circles,  could  keep  the 
secret  of  a solitary  failing  from  the  eyes  of  those  who  live  under 
the  same  roof  with  him  for  seven  days.  It  would  leak  out  some- 
how— if  not  at  breakfast,  at  dinner.  Man  is  a communicative 
animal,  and  so  loves  talking  of  liimseif  that,  if  he  has  committed 
n)urder,  he  must  tell  somebody  about  it  sooner  or  later.  And  as 
to  that  man,”  continued  Rorie.  with  a contemptuous  glance  at 
the  single-minded  Lord  Mallow,  “ he  is  a creature  whom  the 
merest  beginner  in  the  study  of  humanity  would  know  by  heart 
in  half  an  hour.” 

“What  do  you  know  about  him  ?”  asked  Vixen,  laughing. 
‘‘You  have  had  more  than  half  an  hour  for  the  study  of  his 
character.” 

“ I know  ever  so  much  more  than  I want  to  know.” 

“ Answered  like  a Greek  oracle.” 

“What,  have  you  taken  to  reading  Greek?” 

“ No;  but  I know  the  oracles  were  a provoking  set  of  creatures 
who  answered  every  inquiry  with  to  enigma.  But  I won’t  have 
you  abuse  Lord  Mallow.  He  has  been  very  kind  to  Bullfinch, 
and  has  promised  me  that  he  will  never  part  with  him.  I’he 
dear  old  horse  is  to  have  a comfortable  stable  and  kindly  treat- 
ment to  bis  dying  day — not  to  be  sent  out  to  grass  in  his  old  age, 
to  shiver  in  a dreary  solitude,  or  to  be  scorched  by  the  sun  and 
tormented  by  the  flies.” 

“ He  has  promised  all  that,  has  he  ? He  would  promise  a good 
deal  more,  I dare  say,”  muttered  Rorie,  stooping  over  his  rose- 
bud. “Do  you  think  him  handsome!  Do  women  admire  a 
fresh  complexion  and  black  whiskers,  and  that  unmistakable 
air  of  a hair -dresser’s  wax  model  endowed  with  animation?” 

“ I see  you  consider  him  an  idiot,”  said  Vixen,  laughing.  “ But 
I assure  you  he  is  rather  clever.  He  talks  wonderfully  about 
Ireland,  and  the  reforms  he  is  going  to  bring  about  for  her.” 


180 


VIXEN. 


“ Of  course.  Burke,  and  Curran,  and  Castlereagh,  and  O'Con- 
nell, and  fifty  more  have  failed  to  steer  that  lumbering  old  ves" 
sel  off  the  mudbank  on  which  she  stranded  at  some  time  in  the 
Dark  Ages.  In  fact,  nobody  except  Oliver  Cromwell  ever  did 
understand  Ijow  to  make  Ireland  prosperous  and  respectable, 
and  he  began  by  depopulating  her;  and  here  is  a fresh-colored 
young  man,  with  whiskers  a la  coteletie  de  mouton,  who  thinks 
he  w'as  born  to  be  her  pilot,  and  to  navigate  her  into  a peaceful 
haven.  He  is  the  sort  of  man  who  will  begin  by  being  the  idol 
of  a happy  tenantry,  and  end  by  being  shot  from  behind  one  of 
his  own  hedges.” 

‘‘  I hope  not,”  said  "Vixen,”  for  I am  sure  he  means  well.  And 
I should  like  him  to  outlive  Bullfinch.” 

Roderick  had  been  very  happy  all  dinner-time.  From  the 
soups  to  the  ice-puddings  the  moments  had  flowm  for  him.  It 
seemed  the  briefest-  dinner  he  had  ever  been  at,  and  yet  when 
the  ladies  rose  to  depart  the  silvery  chime  of  the  clock  struck 
the  half  hour  after  nine.  But  Lord  Mallow’s  hour  came  later  in 
the  drawing-room,  where  he  contrived  to  hover  over  Violet,  and 
fence  her  round  from  all  other  admirers  for  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing. They  sang  their  favorite  duets  together,  to  the  delight  of 
every  one  except  Eorie,  who  felt  curiously  savage  at  “I  would 
that  my  Love,”  and  icily  disapproving  at  “ Greeting;”  but  vin- 
dictive to  the  verge  of  homicidal  mania  at  “ Oh,  thou  in 
in  the  cauld  blast!” 

“His  ‘plaidie’  indeed!”  he  ejaculated  inwardly.  “The 
creature  never  possessed  anything  so  comfortable  or  civilized. 
How  preposterous  it  is  to  hear  an  Irishman  sing  Scotch  songs! 
If  an  Irishman  had  a plaidie,  he  would  pawn  it  for  a dhrop  o* 
the  crp^tur.” 

Later  Violet  and  Lord  Mallow  sang  a little  duet  by  Masini, 
“ O,  que  la  mer  est  belle!”  the  daintiest,  most  bewitching  music 
—such  a melody  as  the  Lorley  might  have  sung  when  the  Rhine 
flowed  peacefully  onward  below  mountain  peaks  shining  in  the 
evening  light,  luring  foolish  fishermen  to  their  doom.  Every- 
body was  delighted.  It  was  just  the  kind  of  music  to  please  the 
unlearned  in  tiie  ark  Mrs.  Carteret  came  to  the  piano  to  com- 
pliment Violet. 

“ I had  no  idea  you  could  sing  so  sweetly,”  she  said.  “ "Why 
have  you  never  sung  to  us  before?” 

“Nobody  ever  asked  me,”  Vixen  answered,  frankly.  “But 
indeed  I am  no  singer.” 

“ You  have  one  of  the  freshest,  brightest  voices  I ever  had  the 
happiness  of  hearing!’*  Lord  Mallow  exclaimed,  enthusiastically. 

He  would  have  liked  to  go  on  singing  duets  for  an  indefinite 
period.  He  felt  lifted  into  some  strange  and  delightful  region — 
a sphere  of  love  and  harmony — while  he  was  mingling  his  voice 
with  Violet’s.  It  made  the  popular  idea  of  heaven,  as  a place 
where  there  is  nothing  but  singing — an  eternal,  untiring  choir — 
clearer  and  more  possible  to  him  than  it  had  ever  seemed  before. 
Paradise  would  be  quite  endurable  if  he  and  Violet  might  stand 
side  by  side  in  the  serried  ranks  of  choristers.  There  was  quite 
a little  crowd  round  the  piano,  shutting  in  Violet  and  Lord  Mai- 


VIXEN. 


181 


low,  and  Roderick  Vawdrey  was  not  in  it.  He  felt  himself  ex- 
cluded, and  held  himself  gioomingly  apart,  talking  hunting  talk 
with  a man  for  whom  he  did  not  care  twopence.  Directly  his 
carriage  was  announced — sotto  voce  by  the  considerate  Forbes, 
80  as  not  to  wound  anybody’s  feelings  by  the  suggestion  that  the 
festivity  was  on  its  last  legs — Mr.  Vawdrey  went  up  to  Mrs.  Car- 
michael and  took  leave.  He  would  not  wait  to  say  good-night 
to  Violet.  He  only  cast  one  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  piano, 
where  the  noble  breadth  of  Mrs.  Carteret’s  amber  brocaded  back 
obscured  every  remoter  object,  and  then  went  away  moodily, 
denouncing  duet  singing  as  an  abomination. 

When  Lady  Mabel  asked  him  next  day  what  kind  of  an  even- 
ing he  Lad  had  at  the  Abbey  House,  in  a tone  which  implied 
that  any  entertainment  tliere  must  be  on  a distinctly  lower  level 
as  compared  with  the  hospitalities  of  Ashbourne,  he  told  her 
that  it  had  been  uncommonly  slow. 

“How  was  that?  You  had  some  stupid  person  to  take  into 
dinner,  perhaps  ?” 

“ Ho;  I went  in  with  Violet.” 

“And  you  and  she  are  such  old  friends,  you  ought  to  get  on 
very  well  together.” 

Rorie  reddened  furiously.  Happily  he  was  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  light  in  one  of  the  orchid  houses,  enjoying  the  drowsy 
warmth  of  the  atmosphere,  and  Mabel  was  engrossed  with  the 
contemplation  of  a fine  zygopetalum,  which  was  just  making  up 
its  mind  to  bloom. 

“ Oh,  yes,  that  was  well  enough,  but  the  evening  was  disgust- 
ingly slow.  There  was  too  much  music.” 

“ Classical  ?” 

“Lord  knows.  It  was  mostly  French  and  German.  I con- 
sider it  an  insult  to  people  to  ask  them  to  your  house,  and  then 
stick  them  down  in  their  chairs,  and  say  h-sh-hl  every  time  they 
open  their  mouths.  If  people  w^ant  to  give  amateur  concerts 
let  them  say  so  vv^hen  they  send  out  their  invitations,  and  then 
one  would  know  what  one  had  to  expect.” 

“ I am  afraid  the  music  must  have  been  very  bad  to  make  you 
so  cross?”  said  Lady  Mabel,  rather  pleased  that  the  evening  at 
the  Abbey  House  should  have  been  a failure.  “Who  were  the 
performers  ?” 

“ Violet  and  an  Irish  friend  of  Captain  Carmichael’s;  a man 
with  a rosy  complexion  and  black  whiskers — Lord  Mallow.” 

“ Lord  Mallow!  I think  I danced  with  him  once  or  twice  last 
season.  He  is  rather  distinguished  as  a j)olitician,  I believe, 
the  Young  Ireland  party*  Dreadfully  radical.” 

“ He  looks  it,”  answered  Rorie.  “ He  has  a loud  voice  and  a 
loud  laugh,  and  they  seem  to  be  making  a great  deal  of  him  at 
the  Abbey  Flouse.” 

“‘Tommy  loves  a lord,’ ” says  Lady  Mabel,  brightly.  Rorie 
hadn’t  the  faintest  idea  whence  the  quotation  came.  “ I dare 
say  the  Carmichaels  are  rather  glad  to  have  Lord  Mallow  staying 
with  them.” 

“ The  squire  would  have  kicked  him  out  of  doors/’  muttered 
Rorie,  savagely. 


183 


VIXEN. 


‘‘  But  why?  Is  he  so  very  objectionable ? He  waltzes  beau- 
tifully, if  I remember  right,  and  I thought  him  rather  a well- 
meaniog  young  man.” 

“ Oh,  there’s  nothing  serious  against  him  that  I know  of,  only 
I don’t  think  Squire  Tempest  would  have  liked  a singing  man 
any  more  than  he  would  have  liked  a singing  mouse.” 

“I  didn’t  know  Miss  Tempest  sang,”  said  Lady  Mabel, 
thought  she  could  do  nothing  but  ride.”  , 

“ Oh,  she  has  a very  pretty  voice,  but  one  may  have  toomucn 
of  a good  thing,  you  know.  One  doesn’t  go  out  to  dinner  to 
hear  people  sing  duets.” 

“I’m  afraid  they  must  have  given  you  a very  bad  dinner,  or 
you  would  hardly  be  so  cross.  I know  that  is  the  way  with 
papa.  If  the  dinner  is  bad  he  abuses  everything,  and  declares 
the  ladies  were  all  ugly.” 

“Oh,  the  dinner  was  excellent,  I believe;  I’m  not  a connois- 
seur like  my  uncle.  People  might  give  me  the  most  wonderful 
dinner  in  the  world,  and  I should  hardly  be  the  wiser;  cr  they 
might  give  me  a wretched  one,  and  I should  not  feel  particularly 
angry  with  them.” 

The  next  day  was  Tuesday,  and  as  the  duchess  and  her  daugh- 
ter happened  to  be  driving  within  a mile  or  so  of  the  Abbey 
House,  Lady  Mabel  suggested  that  they  should  caU  upon  Mrs. 
Carmichael. 

“I  am  rather  anxious  to  see  the  wild  Irishman  they  have 
captured  lately — Lord  Mallow.  We  met  him  at  Lady  Lum- 
drum’s,  if  you  remember,  mamma.  1 danced  wdth  him  twice.” 

“My  dear  Mabel,  do  you  think  I can  remember  all  your 
partners?” 

“ But  Lord  Mallow  is  rather  celebrated.  He  makes  very  good 
speeches.  Papa  read  one  of  them  to  us  the  other  day  when 
there  was  a great  debate  going  bn  upon  the  Irish  land  cj[uestion.” 

The  duchess  remembered  being  read  to  one  evening  after  din- 
ner, but  the  debates,  as  delivered  by  the  duke,  had  generally  a 
somnolent  effect  upon  his  wife.  She  had  a faint  idea  of  the 
beginning,  and  struggled  heroically  to  discover  what  the  speak- 
ers were  talking  about;  then  came  a soft  confusion  of  sound, 
like  the  falling  of  waters,  and  the  middle  and  end  of  the  debate 
was  dreamland.  Lady  Mabel  was  of  a more  energetic  temper, 
and  was  interested  in  everything  that  could  enlarge  Iier  sphere 
of  knowledge,  from  a Parliamentary  debate  to  a Greek  play. 

The  duchess  had  never  in  her  life  refused  compliance  with  any 
wish  of  her  daughter’s,  so  the  horses’  heads  were  turned  toward 
the  Abbey  House,  along  a smooth  hard  road,  through  a pine 
wood,  then  through  a lodge-gate  into  a forest  of  rhododendrons. 

“This  is  really  a nicer  place  than  Ashbourne,  mamma,”  re- 
marked Lady  Mabel,  disapprovingly. 

It  appeared  to  her  quite  a mistake  in  the  arrangement  of  the 
universe  that  Violet  Tempest  should  be  heiress  to  a more  pict- 
uresque estate  than  that  which  she,  the  Duke  of  Dovedale’s 
only  daughter,  was  to  inherit. 

“My  dear,  Ashbourne  is  perfect.  Everyone  says  so.  The 


VIXEN.  188 

stables,  the  offices,  the  way  the  house  is  lighted  and  heated,  the 
ventilation.” 

“Yes,  mamma;  but  those  are  details  which  nobody  tiiinks 
about  except  an  architect  or  a house  agent.  Ashbourne  is  so 
revoltingly  modern.  It  smells  of  stucco.  It  will  take  a century 
to  tone  it  down.  Now  this  fine  old  place  is  like  a dream  of  the 
past;  it  is  a poem  in  wood  and  stone.  Ashbourne  would  be  very 
well  for  a hunting-box  for  any  one  who  had  three  or  four  other 
places,  as  papa  has;  but  when  my  time  comes,  and  I have  only 
Ashbourne,  I’m  afraid  I shall  hate  it.” 

“But  you  will  have  a choice  of  places  by  and  by,”  said  the 
duchess,  consolingly.  “You  will  have  Briarwood.” 

“ Briarwood  is  a degree  uglier  than  Ashbourne,”  sighed  Lady 
Mabel,  leaning  back  in  the  carriage,  wrapped  to  the  chin  in 
Russian  sable,  the  image  of  discontent. 

There  are  moments  in  every  life  as  in  Solomon’s,  when  all 
seems  vanity.  Lad}^  Mabel  Ashbourne  s life  had  been  cloudless 
— a continual  summer,  an  unchangeable  Italian  sky — and  yet 
there  were  times  when  she  was  weary  of  it,  when  some  voice 
within  her  murmured,  “This  is  not  enough.”  She  was  pretty, 
she  was  graceful,  accomplished,  gifted  with  a self-confidence 
that  generally  passed  for  wit;  all  the  blood  in  her  veins  was  the 
bluest  of  the  blue,  everybody  bowed  down  to  her,  more  or  less, 
and  paid  her  homage;  the  man  she  liked  best  in  the  world,  and 
had  so  preferred  from  her  childhood,  was  to  be  her  husband: 
nobody  had  ever  contradicted  her,  or  hinted  that  she  was  less 
than  perfect;  and  yet  that  mysterious  and  rebellious  voice  some- 
times repeated,  “ It  is  not  enough.”  She  was  like  the  woman  in 
the  German  fairy  tale,  who,  beginning  as  the  wife  of  a half- 
starved  fisherman,  came,  by  fairy  power,  to  be  king,  and  then 
emperor,  and  then  pope;  and  still  was  not  contented,  but  lan- 
guished for  something  more,  ay,  even  to  have  the  ordering  of 
the  sun  and  moon. 

The  rebellious  voice  expostulated  loudly  this  whole  afternoon, 
as  Lady  Mabel’s  languid  eyes  scanned  the  dark  shining  rhododen- 
dron bushes,  rising  bank  above  bank,  a veritable  jungle,  backed 
by  tall  beeches  and  tower- like  Douglas  fires.  A blackbird  was 
whistling  joyously  amongst  the  greenery,  and  a robin  was  sing- 
ing on  the  other  side  of  tlie  drive.  The  sun-lit  sky  was  soft  and 
pearly.  It  was  one  of  those  n]ild  winters  in  which  Christmas 
steals  unawares  upon  tiie  foot-prints  of  a lovely  autumn.  The 
legendary  oak  was  doubtless  in  full  bud  at  Cadenham,  like  its 
miraculous  brother,  the  Glastonbury  thorn. 

“I  don’t  think  any  of  papa’s  places  can  compare  with  this,* 
Lady  Mabel  said,  irritably. 

She  would  not  have  minded  the  beauty  of  the  grounds  so 
much  had  they  been  the  heritage  of  any  other  heiress  than  Violet 
Tempest. 

The  old  hall  was  full  of  people  and  voices  when  the  duchess 
and  her  daughter  were  announced.  There  was  a momentary 
hr^h  at  their  entrance,  as  at  the  advent  of  some  one  of  impor- 
tance, and  Mrs.  Carmichael  came  smiling  out  of  the  fire-light  to 
welcome  them,  in  Theodore’s  last  invention,  which  was  a kind 


VIXEN. 


m 

of  skii’t  that  necessitated  a peculiar  gliding  motion  in  the  wear- 
er, and  was  built  upon  the  lines  of  a mermaid’s  tail. 

“Hew  good  of  you!”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Carmichael. 

“We  were  coming  through  Lyndhurst,  and  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  of  coming  in  to  see  you,”  said  the  duchess,  gra- 
ciously. “ How  do  you  do.  Miss  Tempest?  ¥7 ere  you  out  with 
the  hounds  this  morning?  We  met  some  people  riding  home.” 

“I  have  never  hunted  since  my  father’s  death,”  Violet  an- 
swered, gravely;  and  the  duchess  was  charmed  with  the  answer 
and  the  seriously  tender  look  that  accompanied  it. 

Lord  Mallow  was  standing  before  the  hearth,  looking  remark- 
ably handsome  in  full  hunting  costume.  The  well-worn  scarlet 
coat  and  high  black  boots  became  him.  He  had  enjoyed  liis  first 
day  with  the  Forest  hounds,  had  escaped  the  bogs,  and  had 
avoided  making  an  Absalom  of  himself  among  the  spreading 
beechen  boughs.  Bullfinch  had  behaved  superbly  over  his  old 
ground. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scobel  were  among  those  dusky  figures  grouped 
around  the  v/ide  fire-lit  hearth,  where  the  piled-up  logs  testified 
to  the  Tempest  common  of  estovers.  Mr.  Scobel  v/as  talking 
about  the  last  advance  movement  of  tlie  ritualists,  and  expatiat- 
ing learnedly  upon  the  Ornaments  Rubric  of  1559,  and  its  bear- 
ing upon  the  Advertisements  of  1566,  with  a great  deal  more 
about  King  Edward’s  first  prayer-book  and  the  Act  of  Uniform- 
ity, to  Colonel  Carteret,  who,  from  an  antique  conservative 
stand-point,  regarded  ritualists,  spirit-rappers,  and  Shakers  in 
about  the  same  category;  while  Mrs.  Scobel  twittered  cheerily 
about  the  parish  and  the  schools  to  the  colonel's  bulky  wife,  who 
was  a liberal  patroness  of  all  philanthropic  institutions  in  her 
neighborhood. 

Lord  Mallow  came  eagerly  forward  to  recall  himself  to  the 
memories  of  Lady  Mabel  and  her  mother. 

“ 1 hope  your  grace  has  not  forgotten  me,”  he  said;  and  the 
duchess,  who  had  not  the  faintest  recollection  of  his  face  or  fig- 
ure, knew  that  this  must  be  Lord  Mallow.  “ I had  the  honor  of 
being  introduced  to  you  at  Lady  Humdrum’s  delightful  ball.” 

The  duchess  said  something  gracious,  and  left  Lord  Mallow 
free  to  talk  to  Lady  Mabel.  He  reminded  her  of  that  never  to 
be,  by  him,  forgotten  waltz,  and  talked,  in  his  low-pitched  Irish 
voice,  as  if  he  had  lived  upon  nothing  but  the  recollection  of  it 
ever  since. 

It  was  idiosyncratic  of  Lord  Mallow  that  he  could  not  talk  to 
any  young  woman  without  seeming  to  adore  her.  At  this  very 
moment  he  thought  Violet  Tempest  the  one  lovable  and  soul- 
entrancing  woman  the  world  held  for  him;  yet  at  sight  of  Lady 
Mabel  he  behaved  as  if  she  and  no  other  was  his  one  particular 
star. 

“It  was  a nice  dance,  wasn’t  it?  btit  there  were  too  many 
people  for  the  rooms,”  said  Lady  Mabel,  easily;  “ and  I don’t 
think  the  flowers  were  so  prettily  arranged  as  the  year  before, 
do  you?” 

“ I was  not  there  the  year  before.” 

“ No?  I must  confess  to  having  been  at  three  balls  at  Lady 


VIXEN. 


185 


Dumdrum’s.  That  makes  me  seem  very  old,  docs  ifc  not  ? Some 
young  ladies  in  London  make  believe  to  be  always  in  their  first  sea- 
son. They  put  on  a hoidenish  freshness,  and  pretend  to  be  de- 
lighted with  everything,  as  if  they  were  pist  out  of  the  nursery.’* 
That’s  a very  good  idea  up  to  thirty,”  said  Lord  Mallow.  “ 1 
should  think  it  would  hardly  answer  after.” 

“Oh,  after  thirty  they  begin  to  be  fond  of  horses,  and  take  to 
betting.  I believe  young  ladies  after  thirty  are  the  most  desper- 
ate— what  is  that  dreadful  slang  word? — plungers  in  society. 
How  do  you  like  our  hunting?” 

“ I like  riding  about  the  forest  amazingly,  but  I should  hardly 
call  it  hunting  after  Leicestershire.  Of  course  that  depends  in  a 
measure  upon  what  you  mean  by  Imnting.  If  you  only  mean 
hounds  pottering  about  after  a fox,  this  might  pass  muster ; but  if 
your  idea  of  hunting  includes  hard  riding  and  five-ba.rred  gates, 
I should  call  the  kind  of  thing  you  do  here  by  another  name.” 

“Was  my  cousin,  Mr.  Yawdrey,  out  to-day?” 

“TheM.  F.  H.  ? In  the  first  flight.  May  I get  you  some 
tea  ?” 

“ If  you  please.  Mrs.  Carmichael’s  tea  is  always  so  good.” 

Mrs.  Carmicliael  was  supremely  hanpy  in  officiating  at  her 
gypsy  table,  where  the  silver  tea-kettle  of  Queen  Anne’s  time 
was  going  through  its  usual  sputtering  performances.  To  sit  in  a 
fashionable  gown — however  difficult  the  gown  might  be  to  sit  in 
— and  dispense  tea  to  a local  duchess,  was  Mrs.  Carmichael’s 
loftiest  idea  of  earthly  happiness.  Of  course  there  might  be  a 
superior  kind  of  liappiness  beyond  earth  ; but  to  appreciate  that, 
the  weak  human  soul  would  have  to  go  through  a troublesome 
ordeal  in  the  way  of  preparation,  as  the  gray  cloth  at  Hoyle’s 
printing-works  is  dashed  about  in  gigantic  vats  and  whirled 
round  upon  mighty  wheels  before  it  is  ready  for  the  reception 
of  particular  dyes. 

Lady  Mabel  and  Lord  Mallow  had  a longish  chat  in  the  deep- 
set  window  where  Vixen  watched  for  Rorie  on  his  twenty-first 
birthday.  The  conversation  came  round  to  Irish  politics  some- 
how, and  Lord  Mallow  was  enraptured  at  discovering  that  Lad;/ 
Mabel  had  read  his  speeches,  or  had  heard  them  read.  He  had 
met  manv  young  ladies  who  professed  to  be  interested  in  his 
Irish  politics,  but  never  before  had  he  encountered  one  wlio 
seemed  to  know  what  she  was  talking  about.  Lord  Mallow  was 
enchanted.  He  had  found  his  host’s  lively  step-daughter  stonily 
indifferent  to  the  Hibernian  cause.  She  had  said,  “ Poor 
things!”  once  or  twice,  when  he  dilated  on  the  wrongs  of  an 
oppressed  people ; but  her  ideas  upon  all  Hibernian  subjects 
were  narrow.  She  seemed  to  imagine  Ireland  a vast  sheet  of 
bog  chiefly  inhabited  by  pigs. 

“There are  mountains,  are  there  not?”  she  remarked  once; 
“ and  tourists  go  there.  But  nobody  lives  there,  do  they  ?” 

“ My  dear  Miss  Tempest,  there  are  charming  country-seats. 
If  you  were  to  see  the  outskirts  of  Waterford  or  the  hills  above 
Cork  you  would  find  almost  as  many  fine  mansions  as  in  Eng- 
land.” 

“Really  I”  exclaimed  Vixen,  with  most  bewitching  increduh 


VIXEW.  N 


IG'3 

ifcy ; but  people  don’t  live  in  them  ? Now  I’m  sure  you  can- 
not tell  me  nonestly  that  any  one  lives  in  Ireland,  You,  for  in- 
stance, you  talk  most  enthusiastically  about  your  beautiful 
country,  but  you  don’t  live  in  it.” 

‘‘  I go  there  every  year  for  the  fishing,” 

“Yes;  but  gentlemen  will  go  to  the  most  uncomfortable 
places  for  fishing — Norway,  for  example.  You  go*  to  Ireland 
just  as  you  go  to  Norway.” 

“I  admit  that  the  fishing  in  Connemara  is  rather  remote  from 
civilization — ” 

“ Of  course.  It  is  at  the  other  end  of  everything.  And  then 
you  go  into  the  House  of  Commons,  and  rave  about  Ireland 
as  if  you  loved  her  as  I love  the  Forest,  where  I hope  to  live 
and  die.  I think  all  this  wild  enthusiasm  about  Ireland  is  the 
silliest  tiling  in  the  world  when  it  comes  from  the  lips  of  land- 
owners  who  won’t  pay  their  beloved  country  the  compliment  of 
six  months’  residence  out  of  the  twelve.” 

After  this  Lord  Mallow  gave  up  all  hope  of  sympathy  from 
Miss  Tempest.  V\7'bat  could  be  expected"  from  a young  lady 
who  could  not  understand  patriotism  in  the  abstract,  but  v\'anted 
to  pin  a man  down  for  life  to  the  spot  of  ground  for  which  his 
soul  burned  with  the  ardor  of  an  orator  and  a poet  ? Imagine 
Tom  Moore  compelled  to  live  in  a humble  cot  in  the  Vale  of 
Avoca  I He  infinitely  preferred  his  humdrum  cottage  in  Wilt- 
shire. Indeed,  I believe  it  has  been  proved  against  him  that  he 
had  never  seen  the  meeting  of  the  waters,  and  wrote  about  that 
famous  scene  from  hearsay.  Ireland  has  never  had  a poet  as 
Irish  as  Burns  and  Scott  were  Scottish.  Her  whole-hearted, 
single-minded  national  bard  has  yet  to  be  born. 

It  was  a relief,  therefore,  to  Lord  Mallow’s  active  mind  to  find 
himself  in  conversation  with  a young  lady  who  really  cared  for 
his  subject  and  understood  him.  He  could  have  talked  to  Lady 
Mabel  forever.  The  limits  of  Sve  o’clock  tea  were  far  too  nar- 
row. He  was  delighted  v/hen  the  duchess  paused,  as  she  was 
going  away,  and  Slid: 

“ I hope  you  will  come  and  see  us  at  Ashbourne,  Lord  Mallow; 
the  duke  will  be  very  pleased  to  know  you.” 

Lord  Mallow  murmured  something  expressive  of  a mild  ecstasy, 
and  the  duchess  swept  onward,  like  a three-decker  with  all  sails 
set.  Lady  Mabel  gliding,  like  a neat  little  pinnace,  in  her  wake. 
Lord  Mallow  was  glad  when  the  next  day’s  post  brought  him  a 
card  of  invitation  to  the  ducal  dinner  on  December  the  81st.  He 
fancied  that  he  was  indebted  to  Lady  Mabel  for  this  civility. 

“ You  are  going,  of  course,”  he  said  to  Violet,  twisting  the 
card  between  his  fingers  meditatively. 

“ I believe  I am  asked.” 

“She  is,”  answered  Mrs.  Carmichael,  from  her  seat  behind 
the  urn;  “and  I consider,  under  the  circumstances,  it  is  ex- 
tremely kind  of  the  duchess  to  invite  her.” 

“Why?”  asked  Lord  Mallow,  intensely  mystified. 

“ Why.  the  truth  is,  my  dear  Lord  Mallow,  that  Violet  is  in 
an  anomalous  position.  She  has  been  to  Lady  Southminster’s 


VIXEN.  io’i' 

ball,  and  a great  many  parties  about  here.  She  is  out,  and  ye« 
not  out,  if  you  understand.” 

Lord  Mallow  looked  as  if  he  was  very  far  from  understanding, 

“ She  has  never  been  presented,”  explained  Mrs.  Carmichael. 

“ It  is  too  dreadful  to  think  of.  People  would  call  me  the  most 
neglectful  of  mothers.  But  the  season  before  last  seemed  too 
soon  after  dear  Edward’s  death,  and  last  season,  well  *’ — blushing 
and  hesitating  a little — “my  mind  was  so  much  occupied,  and 
Violet  herself  was  so  indifferent  about  it,  that  somehow  or  other 
the  time  slipped  by  and  the  thing  was  not  done.  I feel  myself 
awfully  to  blame — almost  as  much  so  as  if  I had  neglected  her 
confirmation.  But  early  next  season — at  the  very  first  Drawing- 
room, if  possible — she  must  be  presented,  and  then  I shall  feel 
a great  deal  more  comfortable  in  my  mind.” 

“I  don't  think  it  matters  one  bit,”  said  Lord  Mallow,  with 
appalling  recklessness. 

“ It  would  matter  immensely  if  we  were  traveling;  Violet 
could  not  be  presented  at  an3"  foreign  court,  or  invited  to  any 
court  ball.  She  would  be  an  outcast.  I shall  have  to  be  pre- 
sented myself,  on  my  marriage  with  Captain  Carmichael.  We 
shall  go  to  London  early  in  tht  spring.  Conrad  will  take  a small 
house  in  Mayfair.” 

'‘If  I can  get  one,”  said  the  captain,  doubtfully.  “Small 
houses  in  Mayfair  are  as  hard  to  get  nowadays  as  black  pearls, 
and  as  dear.” 

“ I am  charmed  to  think  you  will  be  in  town,”  exclaimed  Lord 
Mallow;  “ and,  perhaps,  some  night,  w^hen  there  is  an  Irish 
question  on,  you  and.  Miss  Tempest  might  be  induced  to  come  to 
the  Ladies’  Gallery,  Some  ladies  rather  enjoy  a spirited 
debate.” 

“ I should  like  it  amazingly!”  cried  Violet.  “ You  are  awfully 
rude  to  one  another,  are  you  not?  And  you  imitate  cocks  and 
hens,  and  do  all  manner  of  dreadful  things.  It  must  be  capital 
fun,” 

This  was  not  at  all  the  kind  of  appreciation  Lord  Mallow 
desired. 

“ Oh,  yes,  we  are  excruciatingly  funny  sometimes,  I dare  say, 
without  knowing  it,”  he  said,  with  a mortified  air. 

He  was  getting  on  the  fiiendliest  terms  with  Violet.  He  was 
almost  as  much  at  home  with  her  as  Rorie  was,  except  that  she 
never  called  him  by  his  Christian  name,  nor  flashed  at  him  those 
lovely,  mirth-provoking  glances  which  he  surprised  sometimes 
on  their  way  to  Mr.  Vawdrey.  Those  two  had  a hundred  small 
jokes  and  secrets  that  dated  back  to  Vixen’s  childhood.  How 
could  a new-comer  hope  to  be  on  such  delightful  terms  with  her  r 
Lord  Mallow  felt  this,  and  hated  Roderick  Vawdrey  as  intensely 
as  it  was  possible  for  a nature  radically  good  and  generous  to 
hate  even  a favored  rival.  Tl)at  Roderick  was  his  rival,  and  was 
favored,  were  two  ideas  of  which  Lord  Mallow  could  not  dis- 
possess himself,  notwithstanding  the  established  fact  of  Mr. . 
Vawdrey’s  engagement  to  his  cousin. 

“ A good  many  men  begin  life  by  being  engaged  to  their 
cousins,”  reflected  Lord  Medio w<,  “A  man's  relations  take  it 


VIXEN. 


.!S8 

into  their  heads  to  "keep  an  estate  in  the  family,  and  he  is  forth- 
with set  at  his  cousin  like  an  unwilling  ttrrier  at  a rat.  I don’t 
at  all  feel  as  if  this  young  man  were  permanently  disposed  of,  in 
spite  of  all  their  talk;  and  I’m  very  sure  Miss  Ten) pest  likes  him 
better  than  I should  approve  of  were  I the  cousin.’^ 

While  he  loitered  over  his  second  cup  of  coffee,  with  the  ducal 
card  of  invitation  in  his  hand,  it  seemed  to  him  a good  oppor- 
tunity for  talking  about  Lady  Mabel. 

“ A very  elegant  girl,  Lady  Mabel,”  he  said,  “ and  remarkably 
clever.  I never  talked  to  a young  woman,  or  an  old  one,  either, 
who  knew  so  much  about  Ireland.  She’s  engaged  to  that  gawky 
cousin,  isn’t  she  ?” 

Vixen  shot  an  indignant  look  at  him,  and  pouted  her  rosy 
under-lip. 

“ You  mean  young  Vawdrey.  Yes;  it  is  quite  an  old  engage^ 
ment.  They  were  affianced  to  each  other  in  their  cradles,  I be- 
lieve,” answered  Captain  Carmichael. 

“ Just  vvliat  I should  have  imagined,”  said  Lord  Mallow. 

“ Why  ?” 

“ Because  they  seem  to  care  so  little  for  each  other  now.” 

‘‘Oh,  but,  dear  Lord  Mallow,  remember;  Lady  Mabel  Ash- 
bourne is  too  well-bred  to  go  about  the  world  advertising  hex 
affection  for  her  future  husband,”  remonstrated  Mrs.  Carmichael. 
“ I'm  sure,  if  you  bad  seen  us  before  our  m.arriage,  you  would 
never  have  guessed  from  our  manner  to  each  other  that  Conrad 
and  I were  engaged.  You  would  not  have  a lady  behave  like  a 
house-maid  with  her  ‘ young  man.’  I believe  in  that  class  of 
life  they  always  sit  with  their  arms  round  each  other’s  waists 
at  evening  parties.” 

“ I would  have  a lady  show  that  she  has  a heart,  and  is  not 
ashamed  to  acknowledge  its  master,”  said  Lord  Mallow,  with  his 
eyes  on  Vixen,  who  sat  stolidly  silent,  pale  with  anger.  “ How^ 
ever,  we  will  ])ut  dowm  Lady  Mabel's  seeming  coldness  to  good- 
breeding.  But  as  to  Mr.  Vawdrey,  all  I can  say  about  him  is 
that  he  may  be  in  love  with  his  cousin’s  estate,  but  he  is  cer- 
tainly not  in  love  with  his  cousin.” 

This  was  more  than  Vixen  could  brook. 

“ Mr,  Vawdrey  is  a gentleman,  with  a fine  estate  of  his  own,” 
she  cried.  “ How  dare  you  impute  such  meanness  to  him  ?” 

“It  may  be  mean,  but  it  is  the  commonest  thing  in  life.” 

“Yes,  among  adventurers  who  have  no  other  road  to  fortune 
than  by  marrying  for  money;  but  do  you  suppose  it  can  matter 
to  Roderick  whetlier  he  has  a thousand  acres  lessor  more,  or  tw^o 
houses  instead  of  one  ? He  is  going  to  marry  Lady  Mabel  be- 
cause it  was  the  dearest  wish  of  his  mother’s  heart,  and  because 
she  is  perfect  and  proper,  and  accomplished,  and  wonderfully 
clever — you  said  as  much  yourself — and  exactly  the  kind  of 
wife  that  a young  man  w^ould  be  proud  of.  There  are  reasons 
enough,  I should  hone,”  concluded  Vixen,  indignantly. 

Slie  had  spoken  breathlessly,  in  gasps  of  a few  words  at  a 
time,  and  her  eyes  flashed  their  angidest  light  upon  the  astounded 
Irishman. 

“Hot  haK  a reason  if  he  does  not  love  her,”  he  answered, 


YIXIEK 


’ \ 

boldly.  ‘‘But  I believe  young  Englishmen  of  the  present  dny 
marry  for  reason  and  not  for  love.  Cupid  has  been  cashiered  in 
favor  ot  Minerva.  Foolish  marriages  are  out  of  fashion.  No- 
body ever  thinks  of  love  in  a cottage.  First,  there  are  no  more 
cottages;  and  secondly,  there  is  no  more  love.” 

Christmas  was  close  at  hand:  a trying  time  for  Vixen,  who 
remembered  the  jolly  old  Christmas  of  days  gone  by,  when  the 
poor  from  all  the  surrounding  villages  came  to  receive  the  squire’s 
lavish  bounty,  and  not  even  the  tramp  or  the  cadger  was  sent 
empty-handed  away.  Under  the  new  master  all  was  done  by 
line  and  rule.  The  distribution  of  coal  and  blankets  took  place 
down  in  Beechdale,  under  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scobel’s  management. 
Vixen  went  about  from  cottage  to  cottage  in  the  wintry  dusk, 
giving  her  small  offeiings  out  of  her  scanty  allowance  of  pocket- 
money,  which  Captain  Carmichael  had  put  at  the  lowest  figure 
he  decently  could. 

“What  can  Violet  want  with  pocket-money?'’  he  asked,  when 
he  discussed  the  subject  with  his  wife.  “Your  dress-maker 
supplies  all  her  gowns  and  bonnets  and  hats.  You  give  her 
gloves — everything.  Nobody  calls  upon  her  for  anything.” 

“ Her  papa  always  gave  her  a good  deal  of  money,”  pleaded 
Mrs.  Carmichael.  “ I think  she  gave  it  almost  all  away  to  the 
poor.’^ 

“Naturally.  She  went  about  pauperizing  honest  people  be- 
cause she  ha;d  more  money  tham  she  knew  what  to  do  with. 
Let  her  iiave  ten  pounds  a quarter  to  buy  gloves  and  eau-de-Co- 
logne, writing-paper  and  postage-stamps,  and  trifles  of  that  kind. 
She  can’t  do  much  harm  with  that,  and  it  is  quite  as  much  as 
you  can  afford,  since  we  have  both  made  up  our  minds  to  live 
vrithin  our  income.” 

Mrs.  Carmichael  sighed  and  asvsented,  as  she  was  wont  to  do. 
It  seemed  hard  that  there  should  be  this  need  of  economy;  but  it 
was  in  a manner  Violet’s  fault  that  they  were  all  thus  restricted, 
since  she  was  to  take  so  much  and  to  almost  reduce  her  mother 
to  penury  by  and  by. 

“I  don’t  know  what  would  become  of  me  without  Conrad’s 
care,”  thought  the  dutiful  wife. 

Going  among  her  poor  this  Christmas  with  almost  empty 
hands,  Violet  Tempest  discovered  what  it  was  to  be  really  loved. 
Honest  eyes  brightened  none  the  less  at  her  coming,  the  little 
children  flocked  as  fondly  to  her  knee.  The  changes  at  the 
Abbey  House  were  very  wll  understood.  They  were  all  put 
down  to  Captain  Carmichael’s  account,  and  many  a simple  heart 
burned  with  indignation  at  the  idea  that  the  squire’s  golden- 
haired  <laughter  was  being  “put  upon.” 

One  bright  afternoon  in  the  Christmas  holidays  Vixen  con- 
pented,  half  reluctantly  at  the  last,  to  let  Lord  Mallow  accom- 
pany her  in  her  visits  among  the  familiar  faces,  and  that  was  a 
rare  day  for  the  squire’s  old  pensioners.  The  Irishman’s  pocKucs 
were  full  of  half-crowns  and  florins  and  sixpences  for  the  rosy- 
faced,  bare-footed,  dirty,  happy  cniidren. 

“It  puts  me  in  mind  of  the  old  country,”  he  said,  when  he  had 
made  acquaintance  with  the  interior  of  half  a dozen  cottages^ 


VIXEN. 


:’9o 

The  people  seem  just  as  kind  and  friendly  and  improvident  and 
?dle  and  happy-go-lucky  as  my  friends  at  home,  That  old  Sas- 
senach forester,  now,  that  we  saw  sitting  in  the  winter  sun, 
drinking  his  noonday  pint  on  a bench  outside  a rustic  beer-shop, 
looking  the  very  image  of  rustic  enjoyment;  what  Irishman 
could  take  life  more  lightly  or  seem  better  pleased  with  himself; 
a free-born  child  of  the  sun  and  wind,  ready  to  earn  his  living 
anyhow  except  by  the  work  of  his  hands.  Yes,  Miss  Tempest,  I 
feel  a national  affinity  to  your  children  of  the  Forest.  I wish  I 
were  Mr.  Vawdrey,  and  bound  to  spend  my  life  here.” 

“ Why,  what  would  life  be  to  you  if  you  had  not  ould  Ireland 
to  fight  for  ?”  cried  Vixen,  smiling  at  him. 

“ Life  would  be  simply  perfect  for  me  if  I had ” 

“What?”  asked  Vixen,  as  he  came  to  a sudden  stop. 

“ The  dearest  wish  of  my  heart.  But  I dare  not  tell  you  what 
that  is  yet  awhile.” 

Vixen  felt  very  sorry  she  had  asked  the  question.  She  looked 
wildly  round  for  another  cottage.  They  had  just  done  the  last 
habitation  in  a straggling  village  in  the  heart  of  the  woods. 
There  was  nothing  human  in  sight  by  which  the  conversation 
might  be  diverted  from  the  uncomfortable  turn  which  it  had 
just  taken.  Yes;  yonder  under  the  beechen  boughs  Vixen  de- 
scried a small  child  with  red  legs,  like  a Jersey  partridge,  drag- 
ging a smaller  child  by  the  arm,  ankle-deep  in  the  sodden  leaves. 
To  see  them  and  to  dart  across  the  wet  grass  toward  them  were 
almost  simultaneous. 

“ Tommy,”  cried  Vixen,  seizing  the  red-legged  child,  “ why  do  . 
you  never  come  to  the  Abbey  House?” 

“ Because  Mrs.  Trimmer  says  there’s  nothing  for  me,”  lisped 
the  infant.  “ The  new  master  sells  the  milk  up  in  Lunnun.” 

“ Laudable  economy,”  exclaimed  Vixen  to  Lord  Mallow,  who 
had  followed  her  into  the  damp  woodland  and  heard  the  boy’s 
answer.  “ The  poor  old  Abbey  House  can  hardly  know  itself 
under  such  admirable  management.” 

“ There  is  as  big  a house  where  you  might  do  what  you  like.* 
yes,  and  give  away  the  cows  as  well  as  the  milk,  if  you  pleased, 
and  none  should  say  you  nay,”  said  Lord  Mallow,  in  a low  voice, 
full  of  unaffected  tenderness. 

“Oh,  please  don’t!”  cried  Vixen — “ don’t  speak  too  kindly.  I 
feel  sometimes  as  if  one  little  kind  word  too  much  would  make 
me  cry  like  a child.  It’s  the  last  straw,  you  know,  that  crushes 
the  camel;  and  I hate  myself  for  being  so  weak  and  foolish.” 

After  this  Vixen  walked  home  as  if  she  had  been  winning  a 
match,  and  Lord  Mallow,  for  his  life,  dared  not  say  another 
tender  word. 

This  was  their  last  tete-a-tete  for  some  time.  Christmas  came 
with  its  festivities,  all  of  a placid  and  eminently  well-bred  char- 
acter; and  then  came  the  last  day  of  the  year,  and  the  dinnex  at 
Ashbourne. 


VIXEN. 


m 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

“FADING  IN  MUSIC.” 

“Mrs.  Carmichael,  on  her  marrige,  by  the  Duchess  of  Dove- 
dale.” 

That  was  the  sentence  that  went  on  repeating  itself  like  a 
cabalistic  formula  in  Pamela  Carmichael’s  mind,  as  her  carriage 
drove  through  the  dark  silent  woods  to  Ashbourne  on  the  last 
night  of  the  year. 

A small  idea  had  taken  possession  of  her  small  mind.  The 
duchess  was  the  fittest  person  to  present  her  to  her  gracious  mis- 
tress, or  her  gracious  mistress’s  representative,  at  the  first  Draw- 
ing-room of  the  coming  season.  Mrs.  Carmichael  had  old  friends 
friends  who  had  known  her  in  her  girlhood,  who  would  have  been 
happy  to  undertake  the  office.  Captain  Carmichael  bad  an  ancient 
female  relative  living  in  a fossil  state  at  Hampton  Court,  and 
vaguely  spoken  of  as  “a  connection,”  who  would  willingly  emerge 
from  her  aristocratic  hermitage  to  present  her  kinsman  s bride  to 
her  sovereign,  and  whom  the  captain  deemed  the  proper  sponsor 
for  lus  wife  on  that  solemn  occasion.  But  what  social  value  had  a 
fossilized  Lady  Susan  Carmichael,  of  whom  an  outside  world 
knew  nothing,  when  w’eighed  in  the  balance  with  the  Duchess 
of  Dovedale?  No;  Mrs.  Carmichael  felt  that  to  be  presented  by 
the  duchess  was  the  one  thing  needful  to  her  happiness. 

It  was  a dinner  of  thirty  people;  quite  a state  dinner.  The 
finest  and  newest  orchids  had  been  brought  out  of  their  houses, 
and  the  dinner  table  looked  like  a tropical  forest  in  little. 
Vixen  went  into  dinner  with  Lord  Ellangowan,  which  was  an 
unappreciated  honor,  as  that  nobleman  had  very  little  to  say  for 
himself,  except  under  extreme  pressure,  and  in  his  normal  state 
could  only  smile  and  look  good-natured.  Roderick  Vawdrey 
was  ever  so  far  away,  between  his  betrothed  and  an  enormous 
dowager  in  sky-blue  velvet  and  diamonds. 

After  dinner  there  was  music.  Lady  Mabel  played  a dreary 
minor  melody,  chiefly  remarkable  for  its  delicate  modulation 
from  sharps  to  flats  and  back  again.  A large  gentleman  sang 
an  Italian  buffo  song,  at  which  the  company  smiled  tepidly;  a 
small  young  lady  sighed  and  languished  through  “Non  e ver;” 
and  then  Miss  Tempest  and  Lord  Mallow  sang  a duet. 

This  was  the  success  of  the  evening.  They  were  asked  to  sing 
again  and  again.  They  were  allowed  to  monopolize  the  piano; 
and  before  the  evening  was  over  everyone  had  decided  that  Lord 
Mallow  and  Miss  Tempest  were  engaged.  Only  the  voices  of 
pli  ghted  lovers  could  be  expected  to  harmonize  as  well  as  that. 

“ They  must  have  sung  very  often  together,”  said  the  duchess 
to  Mrs.  Carmichael. 

“ Only  within  the  last  fortnight.  Lord  Mallow  never  stayed 
with  us  before,  you  know.  He  is  my  husband’s  friend.  They 
were  brother  officers,  and  have  known  each  otlier  a long  time. 
Lord  Mallow  insists  upon  Violet  singing  eveiy  evening.  He  is 
passionately  fond  of  music.” 

“ Very  pleasant,”  murmured  the  duchess,  approvingly,  and 


i.«g  vixEm 

then  she  glided  on  to  shed  the  sunshine  of  her  presence  upon 
another  group  of  guests. 

Carriages  began  to  be  announced  at  eleven — that  is  to  say, 
about  half  an  hour  after  the  gentlemen  had  left  the  dining- 
room— but  the  duke  insisted  that  the  people  should  stop  till 
twelve. 

“ We  must  see  the  old  year  out,”  he  said.  “ It  is  a lovely 
night.  We  can  go  out  on  the  terrace  and  hear  the  Eingwood 
bells.” 

This  is  how  Violet  and  Lord  Mallow  happened  to  sing  so  many 
duets.  There  was  plenty  of  time  for  music  during  the  hour 
before  midnight.  After  the  singing,  a rash  young  gentleman, 
pining  to  distinguish  himself  somehow — a young  man  with  a 
pimply  complexion,  who  had  said  with  Don  Carlos  “ Three-and- 
twenty  years  of  age,  and  nothing  done  for  immortality!” — recited 
Tennyson’s  “ Farewell  to  the  Old  Year  ” in  a voice  which  was  like 
anything  but  a trumpet,  and  with  gestulation  painfully  sugges- 
tive of  St.  Vitus. 

The  long  suite  of  rooms  terminated  in  the  orangery — a sub- 
stantial stone  building,  with  tesselated  pavement,  and  wide 
windows  opening  on  the  terrace.  The  night  was  wondrously 
mild.  The  full  mqpn  shed  her  tender  light  upon  the  dark  for- 
est, the  shining  water  pools,  the  distant  blackness  of  a group  of 
ancient  yew-trees  on  the  crest  of  a hill.  Ashbourne  stood  high, 
and  the  view  from  the  terrace  was  at  all  times  magnificent, 
but  perhaps  finest  of  all  in  the  moonlight. 

The  younger  guests  wandered  softly  in  and  out  of  the  rooms, 
and  looked  at  the  golden  oranges  glimmering  against  their  dark 
leaves,  and  put  themselves  into  positions  that  suggested  the 
possibility  of  flirtation.  Young  ladies  whose  study  of  German 
literature  had  never  gone  beyond  Ollendorff  gazed  pensively  at 
the  oranges,  and  murmured  the  song  of  Mignono  Couples  of 
maturer  growth  whispered  the  details  of  unsavory  scandals  be- 
hind perfumed  fans. 

Vixen  and  Rorie  were  among  these  roving  couples.  Violet 
had  left  the  piano,  and  Roderick  was  off  duty.  Lady  Mabel  and 
Lord  Mallow  were  deep  in  the  wrongs  of  Ireland.  Captain  Car- 
michael was  talking  agriculture  with  the  duke,  whose" mind  was 
sorely  exercised  about  guano. 

My  dear  sir,  in  a few  years  we  shall  have  used  up  all  the 
guano,  and  then  what  can  become  of  us  ?”  demanded  the  duke. 
“Talk  about  our  exhausting  our  coal!  What  is  that  compared 
with  the  exhaustion  of  guano  ? We  may  learn  to  exist  without 
fires.  Our  winters  are  becoming  milder;  our  young  men  are 
going  in  for  athletics;  they  can  keep  themselves  warm  upon 
bicycles.  And  then  we  have  the  gigantic  coal-fields  of  America, 
the  vast  basin  of  the  Mississippi,  to  fall  back  upon,  with  ever- 
increasing  facilities  in  the  mode  of  transport.  But  civilization 
must  come  to  a dead  lock  when  we  have  no  more  guano.  Our 
grass,  our  turnips,  our  mangel,  must  deteriorate.  We  shall 
have  no  more  prize  cattle.  It  is  too  awful  to  contemplate.” 

“ But  do  you  really  consider  such  a calamity  at  all  probable, 
duke  ?”  asked  the  captain. 


VIXEN. 


193 


Probable,  sir?  It  is  inevitable.  In  1868  the  Chincha Islands 
were  estimated  to  contain  about  six  million  tons  of  guano.  The 
rate  of  exportation  had  at  that  time  risen  to  four  hundred  thou- 
sand tons  per  annum.  At  this  rate  the  three  islands  will  be  com- 
pletely exhausted  by  the  year  1888,  and  England  will  have  to 
exist  without  guano.  The  glory  of  the  English  people  as  breed- 
ers of  prize  oxen  will  have  departed.” 

1 “ Cliemistry  will  have  discovered  new  fertilizers  by  that  time,^ 

suggested  the  captain,  in  a comforting  tone. 

“Sir,”  replied  the  duke,  severely,  “ tiie  discoveries  of  modem 
science  tend  to  the  chimerical  rather  than  the  practical.  Your 
modern  scientists  can  liquefy  oxygen,  they  can  light  a city  with 
electricity,  but  they  cannot  give  me  anything  to  increase  the 
size  and  succulence  of  my  turnips.  Virgil  knew  as  much  about 
agriculture  as  your  modern  chemist.” 

While  the  duke  was  holding  forth  about  guano.  Vixen  and 
Rorie  were  on  the  terrace,  m the  stillness  and  moonlight.  There 
was  hardly  a breath  of  wind.  It  might  have  been  a summer 
evening.  Vixen  was  shrouded  from  head  to  foot  in  a white 
cloak  which  Rorie  had  fetched  from  the  room  where  the  ladies 
had  left  their  wraps.  She  looked  all  white  and  solemn  in  the 
moonlight,  like  a sheeted  ghost. 

Although  Mr.  Vawdrey  had  been  civil  enough  to  go  in  quest 
of  Violet’s  cloak,  and  had  seemed  especially  desirous  of  bringing 
her  to  the  terrace,  he  was  by  no  means  delightful  now  he  had 
got  her  there.  They  took  a turn  or  two  in  silence,  broken  only 
by  a brief  remark  about  the  beauty  of  the  night  and  the  extent 
of  the  prospect. 

“ I think  it  is  the  finest  view  in  the  Forest,”  said  Vixen, 
dwelling  on  the  subject  for  lack  of  anything  else  to  say.  “ You 
must  be  very  fond  of  Ashbourne.” 

“ I don't  exactly  recognize  the  necessity.  The  view  is  superb, 
no  doubt,  but  the  house  is  frightfully  commonplace.  It  is  a 
little  better  than  Briarwood.  That  is  about  all  which  an  en- 
thusiastic admirer  could  advance  in  its  favor.  How  much  longer 
does  Lord  Mallow  mean  to  take  up  his  abode  with  you?” 

Vixen  shrugged  her  cloaked  shoulders  with  an  action  that 
seemed  to  express  contemptuous  carelessness. 

“I  haven't  the  least  idea.  That  is  no  business  of  mine,  you 
know.” 

“I  don’t  know  anything  of  the  kind,”  retorted  Rorie,  cap- 
tiously. “ I should  have  thought  it  was  very  much  your  busi- 
ness.” 

“ Should  you,  really?”  said  Vixen,  mockingly. 

If  the  gentleman’s  temper  was  execrable,  the  lady’s  mood  was 
not  too  amiable. 

“Yes.  Are  not  you  the  loadstar?  It  is  your  presence  that 
makes  the  Abbey  House  pleasant  to  him.  Who  can  wonder 
that  he  protracts  his  stay?” 

“ He  has  been  with  us  a little  more  than  a fortnight.” 

“ He  has  been  with  you  an  age.  Mortals  who  are  taken  up  to 
paradise  seldom  stay  so  long.  Sweet  dreams  are  not  so  long.  A 
fortnight  in  the  same  house  with  you,  meeting  with  you  at 


194 


VIXEN. 


breakfast,  parting  with  you  at  midnight,  seeing  you  at  noontide 
and  afternoon,  walking  with  you;  riding  with  you,  singing  with 
you,  kneeling  down  to  family  prayer  at  your  side,  mixing  his 
‘Amen  ’ with  yours;  why,  he  might  as  well  be  your  husband  at 
once.  He  has  as  much  delight  in  your  society.” 

“ You  forget  the  hours  in  which  he  is  shooting  pheasants  and 
playing  billiards.” 

“Glimpses  of  purgatory,  which  make  his  heaven  all  the  more 
divine,”  said  Rorie.  “Well,  it  is  none  of  my  business,  as  you 
said  just  now.  There  are  people  born  to  be  happy,  I suppose — 
creatures  that  come  into  the  world  under  a lucky  star.” 

“ Undoubtedly,  and  among  them  notably  Mr.  Vawdrey,  who 
has  everything  that  the  heart  of  a reasonable  man  can  desire.’' 

“ So  had  Solomon,  and  yet  he  made  his  moan.” 

“ Oh,  there  is  always  a crumpled  rose  leaf  in  everybody’s  bed. 
And  if  the  rose  leaves  were  all  smooth,  a man  would  crumple 
one  on  purpose,  in  order  to  have  something  to  grumble  about. 
Hark,  Rorie!”  cried  Vixen,  with  a sudden  change  of  tone,  as  the 
first  silvery  chime  of  Ring  wood  bells  came  floating  over  the 
woodland  distance — the  low  moon-lit  hills;  “don’t  be  cross. 
The  old  year  is  dying.  Remember  the  dear  days  that  are  gone, 
when  you  and  I used  to  think  a new  year  a thing  to  be  glad 
about.  And  now,  what  can  the  new  years  bring  us  half  so  good 
as  that  which  the  old  ones  have  taken  away?’’ 

She  had  slipped  her  little  gloved  hand  through  his  arm,  and 
<lrawn  very  near  to  him,  moved  by  tender  thouglits  of  the  past. 
He  looked  down  at  her  with  eyes  from  which  all  anger  had  van- 
ished. There  was  only  love  in  them — deep  love;  love  such  as  a 
very  affectionate  brother  might  perchance  give  his  only  sister; 
but  it  must  be  owned  that  brothers  capable  of  such  love  are 
rare. 

“No,  child,”  he  murmured,  sadly.  “Years  to  come  can  bring 
us  nothing  so  good  or  so  dear  as  the  past.  Every  new  year  will 
drift  us  further.” 

They  were  standing  at  the  end  of  the  terrace  furthest  from  the 
orangery  windows,  out  of  wl.ich  the  duchess  and  her  visitors 
came  trooping  to  hear  the  Ringwood  chimes.  Rorie  and  Vixen 
kept  quite  apart  from  the  rest.  They  stood  silent,  arm  in  arm, 
looking  across  the  landscape  toward  the  wdnding  Avon  and  the 
quiet  market-town,  hidden  from  them  by  intervening  hills. 
Yonder,  nestling  among  those  grassy  hills,  lies  Moyles  Court, 
the  good  old  English  manor-house  where  noble  Alice  Lisle  shel- 
tered the  fugitives  from  Sedgemoor,  paying  for  that  one  act  of 
womanly  hospitality  with  her  life.  Further  avray,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Avon,  is  the  quiet  churchyard  where  that  gentle  martyr 
of  Jeffi’ej^s’s  lust  for  blood  takes  her  long  rest.  The  creeping 
spleenwort  thrives  amidst  the  gray  stones  of  her  tomb.  To 
Vixen  these  things  were  so  familiar  that  it  was  as  if  she  could 
see  them  with  her  bodily  eyes,  as  she  looked  across  the  distance, 
with  its  mysterious  shadows,  its  patches  of  silver  light. 

The  bells  chimed  on  w ith  their  tender  cadence,  half  joyous, 
half  sorrowful.  Tlie  shallower  spirits  among  the  guests  chat- 
tered about  the  beauty  of  the  night  and  the  sweetness  of  the 


VIXEK 


195 


bells.  Deeper  souls  were  silent,  full  of  saddest  thoughts.  Who 
is  there  who  has  not  lost  something  in  ti^e  years  gone  by  which 
earth’s  longest  future  cannot  restore  ? Only  eternity  can  give 
back  the  ravished  treasures  of  the  dead  years. 

Violet’s  lips  trembled  and  were  dumb.  Roderick  saw  the  tears 
rolling  down  her  pale  cheeks,  and  offered  no  word  of  consola^ 
tion.  He  knew  that  she  was  thinking  of  her  father. 

“Dear  old  squire,”  he  murmured,  gently,  after  an  interval  of 
silence.  “ How  good  he  was  to  me,  and  how  fondly  I loved 
him!” 

That  speech  was  the  sweetest  comfort  he  could  have  offered 
her.  Vixen  gave  his  arm  a grateful  hug. 

“ Thank  God  there  is  some  one  who  remembers  him  besides 
his  dogs  and  me!  ” she  exclaimed;  and  then  she  hastily  dried  her 
tears,  and  made  herself  ready  to  meet  Lord  Mallow  and  Lady 
Mabel  Ashbourne,  who  were  coming  along  the  terrace  toward 
them,  talking  gayly.  Lord  Mallow  had  a much  wider  range  of 
subjects  than  Mr.  Vawdrey.  He  had  read  more,  and  could  keep 
pace  with  Lady  Mabel  in  her  highest  flights:  science,  literature, 
politics,  were  all  as  one  to  him.  He  had  crammed  his  vigorous 
young  mind  with  everything  which  it  behooved  a man  panting 
for  parliamentary  distinction  to  know. 

“Where  have  you  two  people  been  hiding  yourselves  for  the 
last  half-hour  ?”  asked  Lady  Mabel.  “You  were  wanted  badly 
iust  now  for  ' Blow,  gentle  gales.’  I know  you  can  manage  the 
bass,  Rorie,  when  you  like.” 

^ “‘Lo,  behold  a pennant  waving,’ ” sang  Rorie,  in  deep,  full 

tones.  “ Yes,  I can  manage  that  much  at  a push.  You  seem 
music-mad  to-night,  Mabel.  The  old  year  is  making  a swan-like 
end — fading  in  music.” 

Rorie  and  Vixen  were  still  standing  arm  in  arm;  rather  too 
much  as  if  they  belonged  to  each  other.  Lady  Mabel  thought. 
The  attitude  was  hardly  in  good  taste,  according  to  Lady  Mabel’s 
law  of  taste,  which  was  a code  as  strict  as  Draco’s. 

The  bells  rang  on. 

“ The  new  year  has  come!”  cried  the  duke.  “ Let  us  all  shake 
hands  in  the  friendly  German  fashion.” 

On  this  there  was  a general  shaking  of  hands,  which  appeared 
to  last  a long  time.  It  seemed  rather  as  if  the  young  people  of 
opposite  sexes  shook  hands  with  each  other  more  than  once. 
Lord  Mallow  would  hardly  let  Violet’s  hand  go,  once  having  got 
it  in  his  hearty  grasp. 

'Hail  to  the  first  new  year  we  greet  together,”  he  said,  softly, 
“ May  it  not  be  the  last!  I feel  that  it  must  not,  cannot  be  the 
last.” 

“ You  are  wiser  than  I,  then,”  Vixen  answered,  coldly,  “ for 
my  feelings  tell  me  nothing  about  the  future,  except” — and 
here  her  face  beamed  at  him  with  a lovely  smile — “ except  that 
you  will  be  kind  to  Bullfinch.” 

“ If  I were  an  emperor  I would  make  him  a consul,”  answered 
the  Irishman. 

He  had  contrived  to  separate  Roderick  and  Vixen.  The  young 
man  had  returned  to  his  allegiance,  and  was  escorting  Lady 


196 


VIXEN. 


Mabel  back  to  the  house.  Everybody  began  to  feel  chilly,  now 
that  the  bells  were  silent,  and  there  was  a general  hurrying  off 
to  tlie  carnages,  wliich  were  standing  in  an  oval  ring  round  a 
group  of  deodoras  in  front  of  the  porch  on  the  other  side  of  the 
house. 

Rorie  and  Vixen  met  no  more  that  night.  Lord  Mallow  took 
her  to  her  carriage,  and  sat  opposite  her,  and  talked  to  her  dur- 
ing the  homeward  drive.  Captain  Carmichael  was  smoking  a 
cigar  on  the  box.  His  wife  slumbered  peacefully. 

“ I think  I may  be  satisfied  with  Theodore,”  she  said,  as  she 
composed  herself  for  sleep;  ‘‘my  dress  was  not  quite  the  worst 
in  the  room,  was  it,  Violet  ?” 

“It  was  lovely,  mamma.  You  can  make  yourself  quite 
happy,”  answered  Vixen,  truthfully;  whereupon  the  matron 
breathed  a gentle  sigh  of  content,  and  lapsed  into  slumber. 

They  had  the  Boldrewood  Road  before  them — a long  hilly 
road  cleaving  the  very  heart  of  the  forest;  a road  full  of  ghosts 
at  the  best  of  times,  but  offering  a Walpurgis  revel  of  phantoms 
on  such  a night  as  this  to  the  eye  of  the  belated  wanderer.  How 
ghostly  the  deer  were,  as  they  skimmed  across  the  road  and 
flitted  away  into  dim  distances,  mixing  with  and  melting  into 
the  shadows  of  the  trees!  The  little  gray  rabbits,  sitting  up  on 
end,  were  like  circles  of  hobgoblins  that  dispersed  and  vanished 
at  the  approach  of  mortals.  The  leafless  old  hawthorns,  rugged 
and  crooked,  silvered  by  the  moonlight,  were  most  ghost-like  of 
all.  They  took  every  form,  from  the  most  unearthly  to  the 
most  grotesquely  human. 

Violet  sat  wra  pped  in  her  furred  white  mantle,  watching  the 
road  as  intently  as  if  she  had  never  seen  it  before.  She  never 
could  grow  tired  of  these  things.  She  loved  them  with  a love 
which  was  part  of  her  nature. 

“ What  a delightful  evening,  was  it  not  r”  asked  Lord  Mallow. 

“I  suppose  it  was  very  nice,”  answered  Violet,  coolly;  “but 
I have  no  standard  of  comparison.  It  was  my  first  dinner  at 
Ashbourne.” 

“ What  a remarkably  clever  girl  Lady  Mabel  is!  Mr.  Vawdrey 
ought  to  consider  himself  extremely  fortunate.” 

“I  have  never  heard  him  say  that  he  does  not  so  consider 
himself.” 

“ Naturally.  But  I think  he  might  be  a little  more  enthusias- 
tic. He  is  the  coolest  lover  I ever  saw.” 

“Perhaps  you  judge  him  by  comparison  with  Irish  lovers. 
Your  nation  is  more  demonstrative  than  ours.” 

“ Oh,  an  Irish  girl  would  cashier  such  a fellow  as  Mr.  Vaw- 
drey. But  I may  possibly  misjudge  him.  You  ought  to  know 
more  about  him  than  I.  You  have  known  him ” 

“ All  my  life,”  said  Violet,  simply.  “ I know  that  he  is  good, 
and  stanch  and  true,  that  he  honored  liis  mother,  and  that  be 
will  make  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne  a very  good  husband.  Per- 
haps if  slie  were  a little  less  clever  and  a little  more  human,  he 
might  be  happier  with  her;  but  no  doubt  that  will  all  come  right 
in  time.” 

“Anyway,  it  will  be  all  the  same  in  a century  or  so,”  assented 


VIXEN. 


197 


Lord  Mallow.  *‘We  are  going  to  have  lovely  weather  as  long 
as  this  moon  lasts,  I believe.  Will  you  go  for  a long  ride  t<> 
morrow — like  that  first  ride  of  ours  ?” 

“ When  I took  you  all  over  the  world  for  sport  ?”  said  Vixen, 
laughing.  “ I wonder  you  are  inclined  to  trust  me  after  that. 
If  Captain  Carmichael  likes,  I don’t  mind  being  your  guide  again 
to-morrow.” 

‘‘  Captain  Carmichael  shall  like.  I’ll  answer  for  that.  I 
would  make  his  life  unendurable  if  he  were  to  refuse.’* 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON. 

Despite  the  glorious  moonlight  night  which  ushered  in  the 
new-born  year,  the  first  day  of  that  year  was  abominable— 
a day  of  hopeless,  incessant  rain,  falling  from  a leaden  sky  in 
which  there  was  never  a break,  not  a stray  gleam  of  sunshine 
from  morn  till  eve. 

“ The  new  year  is  like  Shakespeare’s  Richard,”  said  Lord  Mal- 
low, when  he  stood  in  the  porch  after  breakfast,  surveying  the 
horizon.  “ ‘ Tetchy  and  wayward  was  his  infancy.’  I never 
experienced  anything  so  provoking.  I was  dreaming  all  night 
of  our  ride.” 

“Were  you  not  afraid  of  being  like  that  dreadful  man  in 
‘Locksley  Hair— 

“ Like  a dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams  ?” 
asked  Vixen,  mockingly. 

She  was  standing  on  the  threshold,  playing  with  Argus,  look- 
ing the  picture  of  healthful  beauty,  in  her  dark  green  cloth  dress 
and  plain  linen  collar.  All  Vixen’s  morning  costumes  were  of 
the  simplest  and  neatest — a competent  style  of  dress  which  in- 
terfered with  none  of  her  rural  amusements.  She  could  romp 
with  her  dog,  make  her  round  of  the  stables,  work  in  the  garden, 
ramble  in  the  forest,  without  fear  of  dilapidated  flounces  or  di- 
shevelled laces  and  ribbons. 

“ Violet’s  morning  dresses  are  so  dreadfully  strong-minded,” 
complained  Mrs.  Carmichael.  “To  look  at  her,  one  would  al- 
most think  that  she  was  the  kind  of  girl  to  go  round  the  country 
lecturing  upon  woman’s  rights.” 

“ No  ride  this  morning,”  said  Captain  Carmichael,  coming  into 
the  hall,  with  a bundle  of  letters  in  his  hand.  “ I shall  go  to  my 
den  aud  do  a morning’s  letter  writing  and  accountancy — unless 
you  want  me  for  a shy  at  the  pheasants,  Mallow  ?” 

“ Let  the  pheasants  be  at  rest  for  the  first  day  of  the  year,” 
answered  Lord  Mallow.  “ I am  sure  you  would  rather  be  fetch- 
ing up  your  arrears  of  correspondence  than  shooting  at  dejected 
birds  in  a damp  plantation;  and  lam  luxurious  enough  to  pre- 
fer staying  in -doors,  if  the  ladies  will  have  me.  I can  help  Miss 
Tempest  to  wind  her  wools.” 

“ Thanks,  but  I never  do  any  wool-work.  Mamma  is  the  artist 
in  that  line.” 

“ Then  I place  myself  unreservedly  at  Mrs.  Carmichael’s  feet.* 


198 


VIXEN, 


You  are  too  good,”  sighed  the  fair  matron  from  her  arm- 
chair by  the  hearth;  hut  I shall  not  touch  my  crewels  to-day. 
I have  one  of  my  nervous  headaches.  It  is  a penalty  I too  often 
have  to  pay  for  the  pleasures  of  society.  I’m  afraid'l  shall  have 
to  lie  down  for  an  hour  or  two.” 

And  with  a languid  sigh  Mrs.  Carmichael  wrapped  her  China 
crape  shawl  round  her,  and  went  slowly  up-stairs,  leaving  Violet 
and  Lord  Mallow  in  sole  possession  of  the  great  oak-paneled 
hall,  the  lady  looking  at  the  rain  from  her  favorite  perch  in  the 
deep  window-seat,  the  gentleman  contemplating  the  same  pros- 
pect from  the  open  door.  It  was  one  of  those  mild  winter  morn- 
ings when  a huge  wood  fire  is  a cheerful  feature  in  the  scene, 
hut  hardly  essential  to  comfort. 

Vixen  thought  of  that  long  rainy  day  years  ago— the  day  on 
which  Eoderick  Vawdrey  came  of  age.  How  well  she  remem- 
bered sitting  in  that  very  window,  watching  the  ceaseless  rain, 
with  a chilly  sense  of  having  been  forgotten  and  neglected  by 
her  old  companion.  And  then,  in  the  gloaming,  just  when  she 
had  lost  all  hope  of  seeing  him,  he  had  come  leaping  in  out  of 
the  wet  night,  like  a lion  from  his  lair,  and  had  taken  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her  before  she  knew  what  he  was  doing. 

Her  cheeks  crimsoned  even  to-day  at  the  memory  of  that  kiss. 
It  had  seemed  a small  thing  then.  Now  it  seemed  awful — a 
burning  spot  of  shame  upon  the  whiteness  of  her  youth. 

‘‘  He  must  have  thought  I was  very  fond  of  him,  or  he  would 
not  have  dared  to  treat  me  so,”  she  told  herself.  “ But  then  we 
had  been  play  fellows  so  long.  I had  teased  him,  and  he  had 
plagued  me  ; and  we  had  been  really  like  brother  and  sister. 
Poor  Eorie!  If  we  could  have  always  been  young,  we  should 
have  been  better  friends.” 

“How  thoughtful  you  seem  this  morning.  Miss  Tempest  I” 
said  a voice  behind  Vixen’s  shoulder. 

“Do  I ?”  she  asked,  turning  quickly  round.  “New-Year’s 
Day  is  a time  to  make  one  thoughtful.  It  is  like  beginning  a 
new  chapter  in  the  volume  of  life,  and  one  can  not  help  specu- 
lating as  to  what  the  chapter  is  to  be  about.” 

“ For  you  it  ought  to  be  a story  full  of  happiness.” 

“Ah!  but  you  don’t  know  my  history.  I had  such  a happy 
childhood.  I drained  my  cup  of  bliss  before  I was  a woman, 
and  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  but  the  dregs,  and  they — they 
are  dust  and  ashes.” 

There  was  an  intensity  of  bitterness  in  her  tone  that  moved 
him  beyond  his  power  of  self-control.  That  she,  so  fair  so 
lovely,  so  deeply  dear  to  him  already — she  for  whom  life  sliould 
be  one  summer  day  of  unclouded  gladness — that  she  should  give 
oxpression  to  a rooted  sorrow  was  more  than  his  patience  could 
bear. 

“ Violet,  you  must  not  speak  thus  ; you  wound  me  to  the 
heart.  Oh,  my  love,  my  love,  you  were  born  to  be  the  giver  of 
gladness,  the  center  of  joy  and  delight  I Grief  should  never 
touch  you  ; sorrow  and  pain  should  never  come  near  you. 
You  are  a creature  of  happiness  and  delight.” 

“Don’t!”  cried  Vixen,  vehemently.  “Oh,  pray  don’t!  It  is 


VIXEN, 


199 


all  vain-useless.  My  life  is  marked  out  for  me.  No  one  can 
alter  it.  Pray  do  not  lower  yourself  by  one  word  more.  You 
will  be  sorry — angry  with  yourself  and  me — afterward.” 

“Violet,  1 must  speak.” 

“ To  what  end?  My  fate  is  as  fixed  as  the  stars.  No  one  can 
change  it.” 

“ No  mortal,  perhaps,  Violet.  But  Love  can.  Love  is  a God. 
Oh,  my  darling,  I have  learned  to  love  you  dearly  and  fondly  in 
this  little  while,  and  I mean  to  win  you.  It  shall  go  hard  with 
me  if  I do  not  succeed.  Dear  love,  if  truth  and  constancy  can 
conquer  fate,  I ought  to  be  able  to  win  you.  There  is  no  one 
else,  is  there,  Violet  ?”  he  asked,  falteringly,  with  his  eyes  upon 
her  downcast  face. 

A burning  spot  glowed  and  faded  on  her  cheek  before  she  an- 
swered him. 

“ Can  you  not  see  how  empty  my  life  is?”  she  asked  with  a 
bitter  laugh.  “No,  there  is  no  one  else.  I stand  quite  alone. 
Death  took  my  father  from  me;  your  friend  has  robbed  me  of  my 
mother.  My  old  playfellow,  Roderick  Vawdrey,  belongs  to  his 
cousin.  I belong  to  nobody.” 

“Let  me  have  3’ou,  then,  Violet.  Ah,  if  you  knew  liow  I 
would  cherish  you!  You  should  be  loved  so  well  that  you  would 
fancy  yourself  the  center  of  the  universe,  and  that  all  the  planets 
revolved  in  the  skies  only  to  please  you.  Love,  let  me  have  you 
— priceless  treasure  that  others  know  not  how  to  value.  Let  me 
keep  and  guard  you.” 

“ I would  not  wrong  you  so  much  as  to  marry  you  without 
loving  you,  and  Iphall  never  love  any  more,”  said  Vixen,  with  a 
sad  steadfastness  that  was  more  dispiriting  than  the  most  vehe- 
ment protestation. 

“ Y\7hy  not?” 

“ Because  I spent  all  my  store  of  love  while  I was  a child.  I 
loved  my  father — ah!  I cannot  tell  you  how  fondly.  Ido  not 
think  there  are  many  fathers  who  are  loved  as  he  was.  I poured 
out  all  my  treasures  of  affection  at  his  feet.  I have  no  love  left 
for  a husband.” 

“ What,  Violet,  not  if  your  old  friend  Roderick  Vawdry  were 
pleading  ?”  asked  Lord  Mallow. 

It  was  an  unlucky  speech.  If  Lord  Mallow  had  had  a chance 
—which  he  had  not-  that  speech  would  have  spoiled  it.  Violet 
started  to  her  feet,  her  cheeks  crimson,  her  eyes  flashing. 

“ it  is  shameful,  abominable,  of  you  to  say  such  a thing!”  she 
cried,  her  voice  tremulous  with  indignation.  “I  will  never  for- 
give you  for  that  dastardly  speech.  Come,  Argus.” 

She  had  mounted  the  broad  oak  stairs  with  light,  swift  foot 
before  Lord  Mallow  could  apologize.  He  was  terribly  crest- 
fallen. 

“ I was  a brute,”  he  muttered  to  himself.  “But  I hit  the 
bull’  s-eye.  It  is  that  fellow  she  loves.  Hard  upon  me,  when  I 
ask  for  nothing  but  to  be  her  slave,  and  adore  her  all  the  days  of 
my  life.  And  I know  that  Carmichael  would  have  been  pleased. 
How  lovely  she  looked  when  she  was  angry — her  tawny  hair 
gleaming  in  the  fire-light,  her  great  brown  eyes  flashing!  Y^® 


200 


mXEN. 


it’g  the  Hampshire  squire  she  cares  for,  and  Tm  out  of  it.  I’ll 
go  and  shoot  the  pheasants,”  concluded  Lord  Mallow,  savagely; 
“ those  beggars  shall  not  have  it  all  their  own  way  to-day.” 

He  went  off  to  get  his  gun,  in  the  worst  humor  he  had  ever 
been  in  since  he  was  a child  and  cried  for  the  moon. 

He  spent  the  whole  day  in  a young  oak  plantation,  ankle-deep 
in  ooz}^  mud,  moss  and  dead  fern,  making  havoc  among  the  in- 
nocent birds.  He  was  in  so  blood-thirsty  a temper  that  he  felt 
as  if  he  could  have  shot  a covey  of  young  children,  had  they 
come  in  his  way,  with  all  the  ferocity  of  a modern  Herod. 

“ I think  I’ve  spoiled  Carmichael’s  coverts  for  this  year,  at 
any  rate,”  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  tramped  homeward  in  the 
early  darkness,  with  no  small  hazard  of  losing  himself  in  one  of 
those  ghostly  plantations,  which  were  all  exactly  alike,  and  in 
which  a man  might  walk  all  day  long  without  meeting  any 
thing  nearer  humanity  than  a trespassing  forest  pony  that  had 
leaped  a fence  in  quest  of  more  sufficing  food  than  the  scanty 
herbage  of  the  open  woods. 

Lord  Mallow  got  on  better  than  might  have  been  expected. 
He  went  east  when  he  ought  to  have  gone  west,  and  found  him- 
self in  Queen’s  Bower  when  he  fancied  himself  in  Gretnam 
Wood;  but  he  did  not  walk  more  than  half  a dozen  miles  out  of 
his  way,  and  he  got  home  somehow  at  last,  which  was  much  for 
a stranger  to  the  ground. 

The  stable  clocdi  was  chiming  the  quarter  before  six  when  he 
went  into  the  hall,  where  Vixen  had  left  him  in  anger  that  morn- 
ing. The  great  wood  fire  was  burning  gayl}^,  and  Captain  Car- 
michael was  sitting  in  a Glastonbury  chair  in  front  of  it. 
“Went  for  the  birds,  after  all,  old  fellow,”  he  said,  without  look- 
ing round,  recognizing  the  tread  of  Lord  Mallow’s  shooting 
boots.  “You  found  it  too  dismal  in  the  house,  I suppose  ? Con- 
sistently abominable  weather,  isn’t  it  ? You  must  be  soaked  to 
the  skin.” 

“ I suppose  I am,”  answered  the  other,  carelessly.  “ But  I’ve 
been  soaked  a good  many  times  before,  and  it  hasn’t  done  me 
much  harm.  Thanks  to  the  modern  inventions  of  the  water- 
proof makers,  the  soaking  begins  inside  instead  of  out.  I should 
call  myself  parboiled.” 

“Take  off  your  oil-skins,  and  come  and  talk.  You’ll  have  a 
^ nip,  won’t  you  ?”  added  Captain  Carmichael,  ringing  the  bell. 
“ Kirschenwasser,  Curacoa,  Glenlivat — which  shall  it  be  ?” 

“ Glenlivat,”  answered  Lord  Mallow,  “ and  plenty  of  it.  I’m 
in  the  humor  in  which  a man  must  either  drink  inordinately  or 
cut  his  throat.” 

“Were  the  birds  unapproachable  ?”  asked  Captain  Carmichael, 
laughing;  “ or  were  the  dogs  troublesome  ?” 

“Birds  and  dogs  were  perfect;  but Well,  I suppose  I’d 

better  make  a clean  breast  of  it.  I’ve  had  a capital  time 
here Oh,  here  comes,  the  whiskey.  Hold  your  hand,  old  fel- 

low !”  cried  Lord  Mallow,  as  his  host  poured  the  Glenlivat  some- 
what recklessly  into  a soda-water  tumbler. 

“ You  mustn’t  take  me  too  literall}^  Just  moisten  the  bottom 


VIXEN.  ' 201 

of  the  glass  with  whisky  before  you  put  in  the  soda.  That’s 
as  much  as  I care  about.” 

‘‘  All  right.  You  were  saying ” 

‘‘That  my  visit  here  has  been  simply  delightful,  and  that  I 
must  go  to  London  by  an  early  train  to-morrow.” 

“ Paradoxical !”  remarked  the  captain.  “ That  sounds  like 
your  well-bred  servant,  who  tells  you  that  he  has  nothing  to  say 
against  the  situation,  but  he  wishes  to  leave  you  at  the  end  of 
his  month.  What’s  the  matter,  dear  boy?  Do  you  find  our 
Forest  hermitage  too  dull  ?” 

“ I should  ask  nothing  kinder  from  Fate  than  to  be  allowed  to 
spend  my  days  in  your  Forest.  Yes,  I would  say  good-bye  to 
the  green  hills  and  vales  of  County  Cork,  and  become  that  de- 
testable being,  an  absentee,  if — if — Fortune  smiled  on  me.  But 
she  doesn’t,  you  see,  and  I must  go.  Perhaps  you  may  have  per- 
ceived, Carmichael — perhaps  you  may  not  have  been  altogether 
averse  from  the  idea — in  a word,  I have  fallen  over  head  and  ears 
in  love  with  your  bewitching  step-daughter.” 

“ My  dear  fellow.  Pm  delighted  I It  is  the  thing  I would  have 
wished,  had  I been  bold  enough  to  wish  for  anything  so  good. 
And,  of  course,  Violet  is  charmed.  You  are  the  very  man  for 
her.” 

“ Am  I ? So  I thought  myself  till  this  morning.  Un- 
fortunately the  young  lady  is  of  a different  opinion.  She  has 
refused  me.” 

“Refused  you!  Pshaw!  they  all  begin  that  way.  It’s  one  of 
the  small  diplomacies  of  the  sex.  They  think  they  enhance 
their  value  by  an  assumed  reluctance.  Nonsense,  man;  try 
again.  She  can’t  help  liking  you.” 

“I  would  try  again  every  day  for  a twelvemonth  if  there 
were  a scintilla  of  hope.  My  life  should  be  a series  of  offers. 
But  the  thing  is  decided.  I know  from  her  manner,  from  her 
face,  that  I have  no  chance.  I have  been  in  the  habit  of  think- 
ing myself  rather  a nice  kind  of  fellow,  and  the  women  have 
encouraged  the  idea.  But  I don’t  answer  here,  Carmichael. 
Miss  Tempest  will  have  nothing  to  say  to  me.” 

“She’s  a fool,”  said  Captain  Carmichael,  with  his  teeth  set, 
and  that  dark  look  of  his  which  meant  harm  to  somebody, 
“ I’ll  talk  to  her.” 

“ My  dear  Carmichael,  understand  I’ll  have  no  coercion.  If  I 
win  her,  I must  do  it  off  my  own  bat.  Dearly  as  I love  her,  if 
you  were  to  bring  her  to  me  conquered  and  submissive,  like 
Iphigenia  at  the  altar,  I would  not  have  her.  I love  her  much 
too  well  to  ask  any  sacrifice  of  inclination  from  her.  I love  her 
too  well  to  accept  anything  less  than  her  free,  unfettered  heart. 
She  cannot  give  me  that,  and  I must  go.  I had  much  rather 
you  should  say  nothing  about  me,  either  to  her  or  her  mother.” 

“ But  I shall  say  a great  deal  to  both,”  exclaimed  the  captain, 
desperately  angry.  “ I am  indignant.  I am  outraged  by  her 
conduct.  What,  in  Heaven’s  name,  does  this  willful  girl  want 
in  a husband?  You  have  youth,  good  looks,  good  temper, 
talent,  tastes  that  harmonize  with  her  own.  You  can  give  her 
a finer  position  than  she  has  any  right  to  expect.  And  she  re- 


902 


VIXEN. 


fuses  you.  She  is  a spoiled  child,  who  doesn’t  know  her  own 
mind  or  her  own  advantage.  She  has  a diabolical  temper,  and 
is  as  wild  as  a hawk.  Egad!  I congratulate  you  on  your  escape. 
Mallow.  She  was  not  born  to  make  any  man  happy.” 

“ Small  thanks  for  your  congratulations,”  retorted  the  Irish- 
man. “She  might  have  made  me  happy  if  she  had  chosen. 

I would  have  forgiven  her  temper,  and  loved  her  for  her  wild- 
ness. She  is  the  sweetest  woman  I ever  knew;  as  fresh  and  fair 
as  your  furzy  hill-tops.  But  she  is  not  for  me.  Fate  never 
meant  me  to  be  so  blessed.” 

“ She  will  change  her  mind  before  she  is  many  months  older,” 
said  Captain  Carmichael,  Her  father  and  mother  have  spoiled 
her.  She  is  a creature  of  wliims  and  fancies,  and  must  be  rid- 
den on  the  curb.” 

“ I would  ride  her  with  the  lightest  snaffle  bit  that  ever  was 
made,”  protested  Lord  Mallow.  “ But  there  is  no  use  in  talking 
about  it.  You  won’t  think  me  discourteous  or  ungrateful  if  I 
clear  out  of  this  to-morrow  morning,  will  you,  Carmichael  ?” 

“ Certainly  not,”  answered  his  host,  “but  I shall  think  you  a 
confounded  ass.  Why  not  wait  and  try  your  luclv  again  ?” 

“ Simply  because  I know  it  would  be  useless.  Truth  and 
candor  shine  in  that  girl’s  eyes.  She  has  a soul  above  the  petty 
trickeries  uf  her  sex.  No  from  her  lips  means  No  between  this 
and  eternity.  Oh!  thrice  blessed  will  that  man  be  to  whom  she 
answers  Yes;  for  she  wull  give  him  the  tenderest,  truest,  most 
generous  heart  in  creation. 

“You  answer  boldly  for  her  on  so  short  an  acquaintance.” 

“ I answer  as  a man  who  loves  lier,  and  who  has  looked  into 
her  soul,”  replied  Lord  Mallow.  “ You  and  she  don’t  hit  it 
over  well,  I fancy.” 

“No.  We  began  by  disliking  each  other,  and  we  have  been 
w^onderfully  constant  to  our  first  opinions.” 

“ I can’t  understand ” 

“ Can’t  you?  You  will,  perhaps,  some  day — if  you  ever  have 
a handsome  step-daugliter  who  sets  up  her  back  against  you 
from  the  beginning  of  things.  Have  you  ever  seen  a sleek,  hand- 
some tabby  put  herself  on  the  defensive  at  the  approach  of  a 
terrier,  her  back  arched,  her  eyes  flashing  green  lightnings,  her 
tail  lashing  itself,  her  w^hiskers  bristling?  That's  my  step- 
daughter’s attitude  toward  pie,  and  I dare  say  before  long  I 
shall  feel  her  claws.  There  goes  the  gong,  and  we  must  go,  too. 
Fm  sorry  Miss  Tempest  has  been  such  a fool.  Mallow;  but  I 
^ must  repeat  my  congratulations,  even  at  the  risk  of  offending  ^ 
you.” 

There  were  no  duets  that  evening.  Vixen  was  as  cold  as  ice 
and  as  silent  as  a statue.  She  sat  in  the  shadow  of  her  mother’s 
arm-chair  after  dinner,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  Bore’s  “ Ten- 
nyson,” pausing  to  contemplate  Elaine  with  a half-contemptuous 
pity — a curious  feeling  that  hurt  her  like  a physical  pain. 

“Poor  wretch!”  she  mused.  “Are  there  women  in  our  days 
so  weak  as  to  love  where  they  can  never  be  loved  again,  I 
wonder?  It  is  foolish  enough  in  a man;  but  he  cures  himself  as 
quickly  as  the  mungoose  that  gets  bitten  by  a snake,  and  runs 


VIXEN. 


203 


away  to  find  the  herb  which  is  an  antidote  to  the  venom,  and 
comes  back  ready  to  fight  the  snake  again.” 

“ Are  we  not  going  to  have  any  music  ?”  asked  Mrs.  Carmichael, 
languidly,  more  interested  in  the  picots  her  clever  needle  was 
executiug  on  a piece  of  Italian  point  than  in  the  reply.  “Lord 
Maliow,  cannot  you  persuade  Violet  to  join  you  in  one  of  those 
sweet  duets  of  Mendelssohn’s?” 

‘‘Indeed,  mamma,  I couldn’t  sing  a note.  I’m  as  husky  as  a 
raven.” 

“I’m  not  surprised  to  hear  it,”  said  the  captain,  looking  up 
from  his  study  of  The  Gardener’s  Chronicle,  “No  doubt  you 
managed  to  catch  cold  last  night  w’hile  you  were  mooning  upon 
the  terrace  with  young  Vawdrey.” 

“How  very  incautious  of  you,  Violet!”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Car- 
michael, in  her  complaining  tone. 

“I  was  not  cold,  mamma;  I had  my  warm  cloak.” 

“ But  you  confess  you  have  caught  cold.  I detest  colds;  they 
always  go  through  a house.  I shall  be  the  next  victim,  I dare 
say;  and  with  me  a cold  is  martyrdom.  I’m  afraid  you  must 
find  us  very  dull.  Lord  Mallow,  for  New-Year’s  Day,  when  people 
expect  to  be  lively.  We  ought  to  have  had  a dinner  party.” 

“ My  dear  Mrs.  Carmichael,  I don’t  care  a strav/  about  New- 
Year’s  Day,  and  I am  not  in  a lively  vein.  This  quiet  evening 
suits  me  much  better  than  high  jinks,  I assure  you.” 

“ It’s  very  good  of  you  to  say  so.” 

“ Come  and  play  a game  of  billiards,”  said  Captain  Carmichael, 
throwing  down  his  pape  r. 

“ Upon  my  honor,  I d rather  sit  by  the  fire  and  watch  Mrs. 
Carmichael  at  her  point  lace.  I’m  in  an  abominably  lazy  mood 
after  my  tramp  in  those  soppy  plantations.”  answered  Lord  l\Tal- 
low,  who  felt  a foolisli  pleasure — mingled  with  bitterest  regrets 
— in  being  in  the  same  room  with  the  girl  he  loved. 

She  w^as  hidden  from  him  in  her  shadowy  corner,  shrouded  on 
one  side  by  the  velvet  drapery  of  the  fire-place,  on  the  other  by 
her  mother’s  chair.  He  could  only  catch  a glimpse  of  her  au- 
burn plaits  now  and  then  as  her  head  bent  over  her  open  book. 
He  never  heard  her  voice  or  met  her  eyes;  and  yet  it  was  sweet 
to  him  to  sit  in  the  same  room  with  her. 

“ Come,  Mallow,  you  can  sing  us  something,  at  any  rate,”  said 
the  captain,  suppressing  a yawn.  “ I know  you  can  play  your 
own  accompaniment  when  you  please.  You  can’t  be  too  idle  to 
give  us  one  of  Moore’s  melodies.” 

“ I'll  sing,  if  you  like,  Mrs.  Carmichael,”  assented  Lord  Mal- 
low; “ but  I’m  afraid  you  must  be  tired  of  my  songs.  My  rc^cr- 
toire  is  rather  limited.” 

“Your  songs  are  charming,”  said  Mrs.  Carmichael. 

The  Irishman  seated  himself  at  the  distant  piano,  struck  a 
chord  or  two,  and  began  the  old  melody,  with  its  familiar  re- 
frain: 

“Oh,  there’s  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love’s  young  dream!” 

Before  his  song  was  finished  Violet  had  kissed  her  mother  and 
glided  silently  from  the  room.  Lord  Mallow  saw  her  go^ 


VIXEN. 


ana  there  was  a sudden  break  in  his  voice  as  the  door  closed 
upon  her — a break  that  sounded  almost  like  a suppressed  sob. 

When  Vixen  came  down  to  breakfast  next  morning  she  found 
the  table  laid  only  for  three. 

‘‘What  has  become  of  Lord  Mallow,”  she  asked  Forbes,  when 
he  brought  in  the  urn. 

“ He  left  by  an  early  train,  ma’am.  Captain  Carmichael  drove 
him  to  Lyndhurst.” 

The  old  servants  of  the  Abbey  House  had  not  yet  brought 
themselves  to  speak  of  their  new'lord  as  “ master.”  He  was  al- 
ways “ Captain  Carmichael.” 

The  captain  came  in  while  Violet  knelt  by  the  fire  playing  with 
Argus,  whom  even  the  new  rule  had  not  banished  wholly  from 
the  family  sitting-room. 

The  servants  filed  in  for  morning  prayers,  which  Captain  Car- 
michael delivered  in  a cold  hard  voice.  His  manual  of  family 
worship  was  of  concise  and  business-like  form,  and  the  whole 
ceremony  lasted  about  seven  minutes.  Then  the  household  dis- 
persed quickly,  and  Forbes  brought  in  his  tray  of  covered 
dishes. 

“ You  can  pour  out  the  tea,  Violet.  Your  mother  is  feeling  a 
little  tired,  and  will  breakfast  in  her  room.” 

“ Then  I think,  if  you’ll  excuse  me.  I’ll  have  my  breakfast 
with  her,”  said  Vixen.  “ She’ll  be  glad  of  my  company,  I dare 
say.” 

“ She  has  a headache,  and  will  be  better  alone.  Stop  where 
you  are,  if  you  please,  Violet.  I have  something  serious  to  say 
to  you.” 

Vixen  left  off  pouring  out  the  tea,  clasped  her  hands  in  her 
lap,  and  looked  at  Captain  Carmichael  with  the  most  resolute 
expression  he  had  ever  seen  in  a woman’s  face. 

“Are  you  going  to  talk  to  me  about  Lord  Mallow?”  she 
asked. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then  spare  yourself  the  trouble.  It  would  be  useless.” 

“ I (cannot  conceive  that  3^011  should  be  so  besotted  as  to  re- 
fuse a man  who  offers  so  much.  A man  w ho  has  wealth,  rank, 
youth,  good  looks ” 

“ Spare  me  the  catalogue  of  your  friend’s  merits.  I think  him 
a most  estimable  person.  I acknowledge  his  rank  and  wealth. 
But  I have  refused  him.” 

“You  will  change  your  mind.” 

“ I never  change  my  mind.” 

“You  will  live  to  repent  your  follv,  then.  Miss  Tempest;  and 
all  I hope  is  that  your  remorse  may  be  keen.  It  is  not  one 
woman  in  a thousand  who  gets  such  a chance.  What  are  you 
that  you  should  throw  it  away?” 

“ I am  a woman  who  would  sooner  cut  my  throat  than  marry 
a man  I cannot  honestly  love,”  answered  Vixen,  with  unflinch- 
ing firmness. 

“I  think  I understand  your  motive,”  said  Captain  Carmichael. 
“ Lord  Mallow  never  had  a chance  w ith  you.  The  ground  was 


VIXElSi.  205 

occupied  before  he  came.  You  are  a very  foolish  girl  to  reject 
so  good  an  offer  for  the  sake  of  another  woman’s  sweetheart.” 

“ How  dare  you  say  that  to  me?”  cried  Vixen.  “ You  have 
usurped  my  father’s  place;  you  have  robbed  me  of  my  mother’s 
heart.  Is  not  that  cause  enough  for  me  to  hate  you?  I have 
only  one  friend  left  in  the  world,  Roderick  Vawdrey.  And  you 
would  slander  me  because  I cling  to  that  old  friendship,  the 
last  remnant  of  my  happy  childhood.” 

“You  might  have  a dozen  such  friends,  if  friendship  is  all 
you  want,  and  be  Lady  Mallow  into  the  bargain,”  retorted  Cap- 
tain Carmichael,  scornfully.  “You  are  a simpleton  to  send 
such  a man  away  despairing.  But  I suppose  it  is  idle  to  ask  you 
to  hear  reason.  I am  not  your  father,  and  even  if  I were,  I dare 
say  you  would  take  your  own  way  in  s])ite  of  me.” 

father  would  not  have  asked  me  to  marry  a man  I did  not 
love,”  answered  Vixen,  proudly,  her  eyes  clouding  with  tears 
even  at  the  thought  of  her  beloved  dead;  “ and  he  would  have 
valued  Lord  Mallow’s  rank  and  fortune  no  more  than  I do.  But 
you  are  so  fond  of  a bargain,”  she  added,  her  eye  kindling  and 
her  lip  curving  with  bitterest  scorn.  “ You  sold  Bullfinch,  and 
now  you  want  to  sell  me.” 

“ By  Heaven,  madam,  I pity  the  man  who  may  befool  enough 
to  buy  you!”  cried  the  captain,  starting  up  from  his  untasted 
breakfast,  and  leaving  Vixen  mistress  of  the  field. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

“KURZ  1ST  DER  SCHMERZ  UND  EWIG  1ST  DIE  FREUDE.” 

Captain  Carmichael  said  no  more  about  Lord  Mallow;  but 
Violet  had  to  listen  to  much  plaintive  bemoaning  from  her 
mother,  who  could  not  understand  how  any  well-brought-up 
young  woman  could  refuse  an  Irish  peer  with  a fine  estate,  and 
the  delights  of  a trousseau  made  by  the  renowned  Theodore. 
Upon  this  latter  detail  Mrs.  Carmichael  dwelt  at  more  length 
than  upon  that  minor  circumstance  in  a marriage — the  bride- 
groom. 

“ It  would  have  been  such  a pleasure  to  me  to  plan  your 
trousseau,  darling,  she  said ; such  an  occupation  for  my  mind  in 
these  wretched  winter  afternoons  when  there  is  no  possibility  of 
driving  or  making  calls.  I should  have  attended  to  everything 
myself.  Theodore’s  general  way  is  to  make  a list  of  what  she 
thinks  necessary,  allowing  her  customer  to  correct  it;  but  I 
should  not  have  been  satisfied  wnth  that,  even  from  Theodore, 
though  I admit  that  her  taste  is  perfect.  And  then,  you  know, 
she  is  hand  in  glove  with  Worth,  and  that  alone  is  a liberal  edu- 
cation, as  somebody  says  somewhere  about  something.  No, 
dear,  I would  have  done  it  all  myself.  I know  the  exact  shades 
that  suit  your  complexion,  the  dashes  of  color  that  contrast  with 
and  light  up  your  hair,  the  style  that  sets  off  your  figure.  Your 
trousseau  should  be  talked  about  in  society,  and  even  described 
in  the  fashion  magazines.  And  then  Lord  Mallow  is  really  so 
very  nice — and  has  such  a charming  barytone — what  more  can 
you  want?” 


203 


VIXEN. 


‘^OdIj  to  love  him,  mamma  dearest,  which  I do  not,  and 
never  shall.  That  frank  loud  voice  of  his  does  not  stir  a fibre  of 
my  heart.  I lik<3  him  extremely,  and  so  I do  Mr.  Scobel,  and 
Bates  the  groom.  Lord  Mallow  is  no  more  to  me  than  either  of 
those.  Indeed,  Bates  is  much  nearer  and  dearer,  for  he  loved 
my  father.” 

“ My  dear  Violet,  you  have  the  most  republican  ideas.  Imag- 
ine any  one  putting  Bates  on  a level  witii  Lord  Mallow  I” 

“I  don’t,  mamma.  I only  say  he  is  more  to  me  than  Lord 
Mallow  could  ever  be.” 

“ Your  traveling  dress,”  murmured  Mrs.  Carmichael,  her 
mind  still  dwelling  on  the  trousseau;  “that  affords  more  scope 
for  taste  than  the  wedding  gown.  Velvet  suits  your  style,  but 
is  too  heavy  for  your  age.  A soft  clinging  cashmere,  now,  one 
of  those  delicious  neutral  tints  that  have  been  so  fashionable 
lately,  over  an  underskirt  of  a warmer  color  in  poult  de  sole,  a 
picturesque  costume  that  would  faintly  recall  Lely’s  portraits  at 
Hampton  Court.” 

“ Dear  mamma,  what  is  the  use  of  talking  about  dresses  I am 
never  going  to  require  ? Not  for  all  the  finery  that  Theodore 
ever  made  would  I marry  Lord  Mallow,  or  anybody  else.  I am 
happy  enough  with  you,  and  my  horse,  and  my  dog,  and  all  the 
dear  old  things,  animal  and  vegetable,  that  belong  to  this  dear 
old  place.  I shall  never  leave  you  or  the  Forest.  Can  you  not 
be  content  to  know  this,  and  let  me  alone  ?” 

“ You  are  a very  willful  girl,  Violet,  and  ridiculously  blind  to 
your  own  interests,”  remarked  Mrs.  Carmichael,  throwing  her- 
self back  in  her  chair  with  a fretful  look,  “and  you  put'  me  in 
an  absurd  position.  The  duchess  quite  congratulated  me  about 
your  brilliant  prospects,  when  we  were  chatting  together  on 
New-Year’s  Eve.  Any  body  could  see  how  devoted  Lord  Mal- 
low was,  she  said,  and  what  a splendid  match  it  would  be  for 
you.” 

“Let  the  duchess  marry  her  own  daughter,  and  leave  me 
alone,”  cried  Vixen,  scornfully. 

This  was  the  kind  of  thing  she  had  to  endure  continually  dur- 
ing the  chill  winter  months  that  followed  Lord  Mallow’s  depart- 
ure. Even  her  old  friends  the  Scobels  worried  her  about  the 
Irish  peer,  and  lamented  her  inability  to  perceive  his  merits.  It 
was  known  throughout  her  particular  circle  that  she  had  been 
idiotic  enough  to  refuse  Lord  Mallow.  Mrs.  Carmichael  had 
whispered  the  fact  to  all  her  friends,  under  the  seal  of  strictest 
secrecy.  Of  all  Vixen’s  acquaintance,  Roderick  Vav/drey  was 
the  only  one  who  said  no  word  to  her  about  Lord  Mallow;  but 
he  was  much  kinder  to  her  after  the  Irishman’s  departure  than 
he  had  shown  himself  during  his  visit. 

Spring  put  on  her  green  mantle;  and  when  the  woods  were 
starred  with  primroses,  and  the  banks  lovely  with  heaven-hued 
dog-violets,  every  one  of  any  pretension  to  importance  in  the  so- 
cial scale  began  to  flee  from  the  forest  as  from  a loathsome 
place.  Lord  Ellangowan’s  train  of  vans  and  wagons  set  out  for 
the  railway  station  with  their  load  of  chests  and  baskets.  Juhus 
Cmsar’s  baggage  was  as  nothing  to  the  Saratoga  trunks  and  bom 


VIXEN. 


207 


net  boxes  of  Lady  Ellangowan.  The  departure  of  the  Israelites 
from  Egypt  was  hardly  a mightier  business  than  this  emigration 
of  the  Ellangowan  household.  The  duke  and  duchess  and  Lady 
Mabel  Ashbourne  left  for  the  Queen  Anno  house  at  Kensington, 
whereat  the  fashionable  London  papers  broke  out  in  paragraphs 
of  rejoicing,  and  the  local  journals  bewailed  the  extinction  of 
their  sun. 

The  London  season  had  begun,  and  only  the  nobodies  stayed 
in  the  Forest  to  watch  the  rosy  sunsets  glow  and  fade  behind  the 
yellow  oaks;  to  see  the  purple  of  the  beech  boughs  change  mys- 
teriously to  brightest  green,  and  the  bluebells  burst  into  blossom 
in  the  untrodden  glades  and  bottoms.  Captain  Carmichael  found 
a small  house  in  Mayfair,  which  he  hired  for  six  weeks,  at  a rent 
which  he  pronounced  exorbitant.  He  sacrificed  his  own  ideas 
of  prudence  to  the  gratification  of  his  wife,  who  had  made  up 
her  mind  that  she  had  scarcely  the  right  to  exist  until  she  had 
been  presented  to  her  sovereign  in  her  new  name.  But  when 
Mrs.  Carmichael  ventured  to  suggest  the  Duchess  of  Dovedale  as 
her  sponsor  on  this  solemn  occasion,  her  husband  sternly  tabooed 
the  notion. 

“ My  aunt.  Lady  Susan  Carmichael,  is  the  proper  person  to  pre- 
sent you,”  he  said,  authoritatively. 

“ But  is  she  really  your  aunt,  Conrad?  You  never  mentioned 
her  before  we  were  married.” 

‘‘She  is  my  father’s  third  cousin  by  marriage;  but  we  have 
always  called  her  aunt.  She  is  the  widow  of  Major-General 
Carmichael,  who  distinguished  himself  in  the  last  war  with 
Tippoo  Sahib,  and  had  a place  at  court  in  the  reign  of  William 
the  Fourth.” 

“She  must  be  dreadfully  old  and  dowdy,”  sighed  Mrs.  Car- 
michael, whose  only  historical  idea  of  the  Sailor  King’s  reign 
was  as  a period  of  shoj  t waists  and  beaver  bonnets. 

“ She  is  not  a chicken,  and  she  does  not  spend  eight  hundred 
a year  on  her  dress-maker,”  retorted  the  captain.  “ But  she  is  a 
very  worthy  woman,  and  highly  respected  by  her  friends.  Why 
should  you  ask  a favor  of  the  Duchess  of  Dovedale  ?” 

“Her  name  would  look  so  well  in  the  papers,”  plei^ded  Mrs. 
Carmichael. 

“The  name  of  your  husband’s  kinswoman  will  look  much 
more  respectable,”  answered  the  captain;  and  in  this,  as  in  most 
matters  he  had  his  own  way. 

Lady  Susan  Carmichael  was  brought  from  her  palatial  retire- 
ment to  spend  a fortnight  in  Mayfair.  She  was  bony,  wiggy, 
and  snuffy;  wore  false  teeth  and  seedy  apparel;  but  she  was  well- 
bred  and  well-informed,  and  Vixen  got  on  with  her  much  better 
than  with  the  accomplished  captain.  Lady  Susan  took  to  Vixen , 
and  these  two  went  out  for  early  walks  together  in  the  adjacent 
Green  Paik,  and  perambulated  the  picture-galleries  before  Mrs. 
Carmichael  had  braced  herself  up  for  the  fatigues  of  a fashion- 
able afternoon. 

Sometimes  they  came  across  Mr.  Vawdrey  at  a picture-gallery 
or  in  the  Park;  aW  at  the  first  of  these  chance  meetings,  struck 


208 


VIXEN. 


by  the  obvious  delight  with  which  the  two  young  people  greeted 
each  other,  Lady  Susan  jumped  to  a conclusion. 

“That’s  your  young  man,  I suppose,  my  dear,”  she  said, 
bluntly,  when  Rorie  had  left  them. 

“ Oh,  Lady  Susan !” 

“It’s  a vulgar  expression,  1 know,  my  dear,  but  it  comes  nat- 
ural to  me;  I hear  it  so  often  from  our  house-maids.  I fancied 
that  you  and  that  handsome  young  fellow  must  be  engaged,” 

“Oh  no.  We  are  only  old  friends.  He  is  engaged  to  Lady 
Mabel  Ashbourne — a very  grand  match.” 

“That’s  a pity,”  said  Lady  Susan. 

“Why  ?” 

“Weil,  my  dear,”  answered  the  old  lady,  hesitatingly,  “be- 
cause when  one  hears  of  a grand  match,  it  generally  means  that 
a young  man  is  marrying  for  the  sake  of  money,  and  that  young 
old  friend  of  yours  looks  too  good  to  throw  himself  away  like 
that.” 

“Oh,  but  indeed,  Lady  Susan,  it  is  not  so  in Rorie’s  case.  He 
has  plenty  of  money  of  his  own.” 

The  important  day  came;  and  Lady  Susan,  Mrs.  Carmichael, 
and  Violet  packed  themselves  and  their  finery  into  a capacious 
carriage,  and  set  off  for  St.  James’s.  The  fair  Pamela’s  costume 
was  an  elaborate  example  of  Theodore’s  highest  art;  colors,  de- 
sign, all  of  the  newest — a delicate  harmony  of  half  tints,  an  in- 
describable interblending  of  feathers,  lace,  and  flowers.  Violet 
was  simply  and  elegantly  dressed  by  the  same  great  artist.  Lady 
Susan  wore  a petticoat  and  train  that  must  have  been  made  in 
the  time  of  Queen  Adelaide.  Yes,  the  faded  and  unknown  hue 
of  the  substantial  brocade,  the  skimpiness  of  the  satin,  the  quaint 
devices  in  piping -cord  and  feather  stich,  must  assuredly  have 
been  coeval  with  that  good  woman’s  famous  hat  and  spencer. 

Poor  Mrs.  Carmichael  was  horrified  when  she  saw  her  hus- 
band’s kinswoman  attired  for  the  ceremony,  not  a whit  less 
wiggy  and  snuffy  than  usual,  and  with  three  lean  ostrich  feath- 
ers starting  erect  from  her  back  hair,  like  the  ladies  in  the  pros- 
cenium boxes  of  Skelt’s  Theater,  whose  gayly  painted  effigies 
were  so  dear  to  our  childhood. 

Poor  Pamela  felt  inclined  to  shed  tears.  Even  her  confidence 
in  the  perfection  of  her  own  toilet  could  hardly  sustain  her 
against  the  horror  of  being  presented  by  such  a scarecrow. 

The  ceremony  went  off  satisfactorily,  in  spite  of  Lady  Susan’s 
antiquated  garments.  Nobody  laughed.  Perhaps  the  habitues 
of  St.  James’s  were  accustomed  to  scarecrows.  Violet  s fresh 
young  beauty  attracted  some  little  notice  as  she  waited  among 
the  crowd  of  debutantes;  but  on  its  being  ascertained  that  she 
was  nobody  in  particular,  curiosity  languished  and  died. 

Mrs.  Carmichael  wanted  to  exhibit  her  court  dress  at  the  opera 
that  evening,  but  her  husband  protested  against  this  display  as 
bad  style.  Vixen  was  only  too  "glad  to  throw  off  her  finery,  the 
tulle  puffings  and  festoonings,  and  floral  wreaths  and  bouquets, 
which  made  movement  difficult  and  sitting  down  almost  impos- 
sible. 

Those  six  weeks  in  town  were  chiefly  devoted  to  gayety.  Mrs. 
Carmichael’s  Hampshire  friends  called  on  her,  and  followed  up 


VIXEN. 


m 

their  calls  by  invitations  to  cl  inner,  and  at  the  dinners  she  gen- 
erally met  people  who  were  on  the  eve  of  giving  a garden  party, 
or  a concert,  or  a dance,  and  who  begged  to  be  allowed  to  send 
her  a card  for  that  entertainment,  spoken  of  modestly  as  a thing 
of  no  account.  And  then  there  was  a hurried  interchange  of 
calls,  and  Violet  found  herself  meandering  about  an  unknown 
croquet  lawn,  amongst  unknown  nobodys,  under  a burning  sun, 
looking  at  other  girls,  dressed  like  herself  in  dresses  a la  Theo- 
dore, with  the  last  thing  in  sleeves  and, the  last  cut  in  trains,  all 
pretending  to  be  amused  by  the  vapid  and  languid  observations 
of  the  cavalier  told  off  to  them,  paired  like  companions  of  the 
chain  at  Toulon,  and  as  almost  as  joyous. 

Violet  Tempest  attended  no  less  than  eight  private  concerts 
during  those  six  weeks,  and  heard  the  same  new  ballad,  and  the 
same  latest  gavotte  in  C minor,  at  every  one  of  them.  She  was 
taken  to  pianoforte  recitals  in  fashionable  squares  and  streets, 
and  heard  Bach  and  Beethoven  till  her  heart  ached  with  pity  for 
the  patient  labor  of  the  performers,  knowing  how  poorly  she  and 
the  majority  of  mankind  appreciated  their  efforts.  She  went  to 
a few  dances  that  were  rather  amusing,  and  waltzed  to  her 
heart’s  content.  She  rode  Arion  in  the  Row,  and  horse  and  rider 
were  admired  as  perfect  efter  their  kind.  Once  she  met  Lord 
Mallow,  riding  beside  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne  and  the  Duke  of 
Dovedale.  His  florid  cheek  paled  a little  at  the  sight  of  her. 
They  passed  each  other  with  a friendly  bow,  and  this  was  their 
only  meeting.  Lord  Mallow  left  cards  at  the  house  in  Mayfair  a 
week  before  the  Carmichaels  went  back  to  Hampshire.  He  had 
been  working  hard  at  his  senatorial  duties,  and  had  made  some 
telling  speeches  upon  the  Irish  land  question.  People  talked  of 
him  as  a rising  politician;  and  whenever  his  name  appeared  in 
the  morning  papers  Mrs.  Carmichael  uplifted  her  voice  at  the 
breakfast  table,  and  made  her  wail  about  Violet’s  folly  in  refus- 
ing such  an  excellent  young  man. 

“It  would  have  been  so  nice  to  be  able  to  talk  about  my 
daughter.  Lady  Mallow,  and  Castle  Mallow,”  said  Pamela,  in 
confidence,  to  her  husband. 

“No  doubt,  my  dear,”  he  answered,  coolly;  “but  when  you 
bring  up  a young  woman  to  have  her  own  way  in  everything, 
you  must  take  the  consequences.” 

“It  is  very  ungrateful  of  Violet,”  sighed  the  afflicted  mother, 
“ after  the  pains  I have  taken  to  dress  her  prettily  ever  since  she 
was  a baby.  It  is  a very  poor  return  for  my  care.” 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A MIDSUMMER  NIGHT’S  DREAM. 

They  were  all  back  at  the  Abbey  House  again  early  in  June, 
and  Vixen  breathed  more  freely  in  her  own  sweet  native  air. 
How  dear,  how  doubly  beautiful,  everything  seemed  to  her  after 
even  so  brief  an  exile!  But  it  was  a grief  to  have  missed  the 
apple  bloom  and  the  bluebells.  The  woods  were  putting  on  their 
ripe  summer  beauty;  the  beeches  had  lost  the  first  freshness  of 
their  tender  green;  the  amber  glory  of  the  young  oak  leaves  was 


210 


VIXEN. 


over;  the  last  of  the  primroses  had  paled  and  faded  among  the 
spreading  bracken;  masses  of  snowy  hawthorn  bloom  gleamed 
white  amidst  the  woodland  shadows;  bean  fields  in  full  bloom 
filled  the  air  with  delicate  odors;  the  summer  winds  swept  across 
the  long  lush  grass  in  the  meadows,  beautiful  with  ever- varying 
lights  and  shadows;  families  of  sturdy  black  piglings  were  grub- 
bing on  the  waste  turf  beside  every  road,  and  the  forest  fiy  was 
getting  strong  upon  the  wing.  The  depths  of  Mark  Ash  were 
dark  at  noontide  under  their  roof  of  foliage. 

Vixen  reveled  in  the  summer  weather.  She  was  out  from 
morning  till  evening,  on  foot  or  on  horseback,  sketching  or  read- 
ing a novel,  in  some  solitary  corner  of  the  woods,  with  Argus 
for  her  companion  and  guardian.  It  was  an  idle,  purposeless 
existence  for  a young  woman  to  lead,  no  doubt;  but  Violet 
Tempest  knew  of  no  better  thing  that  life  offered  for  her  to  do. 

Neither  her  mother  nor  Captain  Carmichael  interfered  with 
her  liberty.  The  captain  had  his  own  occupations  and  amuse- 
ments, and  his  wife  was  given  up  to  frivolities  which  left  no 
room  in  her  mind  for  anxiety  about  her  only  daughter.  So  long 
as  Violet  looked  fresh  and  pretty  at  the  breakfast  table,  and  was 
nicely  dressed  in  the  evening,  Mrs.  Carmichael  thought  that  all 
was  well;  or,  at  least,  as  well  as  it  ever  c’.ould  be  with  a girl  wlio 
had  been  so  besotted  as  to  refuse  a wealthy  young  nobleman.  So 
Vixen  went  her  own  way,  and  nobody  cared.  She  seemed  to 
have  a passion  for  solitude,  and  avoided  even  her  old  friends, 
the  Scobels,  who  had  made  themselves  odious  by  their  champion- 
ship of  Lord  Mallow. 

The  London  season  was  at  its  height  when  the  Carmichaels 
went  back  to  Hampshire.  The  Dovedales  were  to  be  at  Ken- 
sington till  the  beginning  of  July,  with  Mr.  Vawdrey  in  attend- 
ance upon  them.  He  had  rooms  in  Ebury  Street,  and  had 
assumed  an  urban  air  which,  in  Vixen’s  opinion,  made  him 
execrable. 

“ I can’t  tell  you  how  hateful  you  look  in  lavender  gloves  and 
a high  hat,”  she  said  to  him  one  day  in  Clarges  Street. 

“ I dare  say  I look  more  natural  dressed  like  a gamekeeper,”  he 
answered,  liglitly;  “I  was  born  so.  As  for  the  high  hat,  you 
can’t  hate  it  more  than  I do;  and  I have  always  considered 
gloves  a foolishness  on  a level  with  pigtails  and  hair-powder,” 

Vixen  had  been  wandering  in  her  old  haunts  for  something 
less  than  a fortnight,  when,  on  one  especially  fine  morning,  she 
mounted  Arion  directly  after  breakfast  and  started  on  one  of 
her  rambles,  with  the  faithful  Bates  in  attendance,  to  open  gates 
or  to  pull  her  out  of  bogs  if  needful.  Upon  this  point  Mrs.  Car- 
michael was  strict.  Violet  might  ride  when  and  where  she 
pleased — since  these  mean  derings  in  the  Forest  were  so  great  a 
pleasure  to  her — but  she  must  never  ride  without  a groom. 

Old  Bates  liked  the  duty.  He  adored  his  mistress,  and  had 
spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  the  saddle.  There  was  no 
more  enjoyable  kind  of  idleness  possible  for  him  than  to  jog 
along  in  the  sunshine  on  one  of  the  captain’s  old  hunters,  called 
upon  for  no  greater  exertion  than  to  flick  an  occasional  fly  off  his 
horse’s  haunch,  or  to  bend  down  and  hook  open  the  gate  of  a 


VIXEN. 


211 


plantation  with  his  stout  hunting-crop.  Bates  had  many  a brief 
snatch  of  slumber  in  those  warni  inclosures,  where  the  air  was 
heavy  with  the  sc«nt  of  the  pines,  and  the  buzzing  of  summer 
flies  made  a perpetual  lullaby.  There  was  a delicious  sense  of 
repose  in  such  a sleep,  but  it  was  not  quite  so  pleasant  to  be 
jerked  suddenly  into  the  waking  world  by  a savage  plunge  of 
the  aggravated  hunter’s  hind-legs,  goaded  to  madness  by  a lively 
specimen  of  the  forest  fly. 

On  this  particular  morning  Yixen  was  in  a thoughtful  mood, 
and  Arion  was  lazy.  She  let  him  walk  at  a leisurely  pace  under 
the  beeches  of  Gretnam  Wood,  and  through  the  quiet  paths  of 
the  New  Park  plantations.  He  came  slowly  out  into  Queen’s 
Bower,  tossing  his  delicate  head  and  sniffing  the  summer  air. 
The  streamlets  were  rippling  gayly  in  the  noontide  sun;  far  off 
on  the  yellow  common  a solitary  angler  was  whipping  the 
stream — quite  an  unusual  figure  in  the  lonely  landscape.  A de- 
licious, slumberous  quiet  reigned  over  all  the  scene.  Vixen  was 
lost  in  thought,  Bates  was  dreaming,  when  a horse’s  hoofs  came 
up  stealthily  beside  Arion,  and  a manly  voice  startled  the  sultry 
stillness. 

“ I’ve  got  rid  of  the  high  hat  for  this  year,  and  I’m  my  own 
man  again,”  said  the  voice;  and  then  a strong  brown  hand  was 
laid  upon  Vixen’s  glove,  and  swallowed  up  her  slender  fingers  in 
its  warm  grasp. 

“When  did  you  come  back?”  she  asked,  as  soon  as  their 
friendly  greetings  were  over,  and  Arion  had  reconciled  himself 
to  the  companionship  of  Mr.  Vawdrey’s  hack. 

“Late  last  night.” 

“ And  have  the  duchess  and  her  people  come  back  to  Ash- 
bourne ?” 

“ Pas  si  bete.  The  duchess  and  her  people — meaning  Mabel — - 
have  engagements  six  deep  for  the  next  month:  breakfasts, 
lawn  parties,  music,  art,  science,  horticulture,  dancing,  archery, 
every  form  of  laborious  amusement  that  the  genius  of  man 
has  invented.  One  of  our  modern  sages  has  s<aid  that  life  would 
be  tolerable  but  for  its  amusements.  I am  of  that  wise  man’s 
opinion.  Fashionable  festivities  are  my  aversion.  So  I told 
Mabel  frankly  that  I found  my  good  spirits  being  crushed  out  of 
me  by  the  weight  of  too  much  pleasure,  and  that  I must  come 
home  to  look  after  my  farm.  The  dear  old  duke  recognized  that 
duty  immediately,  and  gave  me  all  sorts  of  messages  and  admo- 
nitions for  his  bailiff.” 

“ And  you  are  really  free  to  do  what  you  like  for  a month?” 
exclaimed  Vixen,  naively.  “Poor  Roriel  How  glad  you  must 
be!” 

“ My  liberty  is  of  even  greater  extent.  I am  free  till  the  mid- 
dle of  August,  when  I am  to  join  the  Dovedales  in  Scotland. 
Later,  I suppose,  the  duke  will  go  to  Baden,  or  to  some  newly 
discovered  fountain  in  the  Black  Forest.  He  could  not  exist  for 
a twelvemonth  without  German  waters.” 

“And  after  that  there  will  be  a wedding,  I suppose?”  said 
Violet. 

She  felt  as  if  called  upon  to  say  something  of  this  kind.  She 


212 


VIXEN. 


wanted  Eorie  to  know  that  she  recognized  his  position  as  an  en- 
gaged man.  She  hated  talking  about  the  business,  but  she  felt 
somehow  that  this  was  incumbent  upon  her. 

“ I suppose  so,”  answered  Rorie;  “ a man  must  be  married  once 
in  his  life.  The  sooner  he  gets  the  ceremony  over  the  better. 
My  engagement  has  hung  fire  rather.  There  is  always  a kicd  of 
flatness  about  the  thing  between  cousins,  I dare  say.  Neither  of 
us  is  in  a hurry.  Mabel  has  so  many  ideas  and  occupations, 
from  orchids  to  Greek  choruses.” 

“ She  is  very  clever,”  said  Vixen. 

“She  is  clever  and  goodj  and  I am  very  proud  of  her/’  an- 
swered Rorie,  loyally. 

He  felt  as  if  he  were  walking  on  the  brink  of  a precipice,  and 
that  it  needed  all  his  care  to  steer  clear  of  the  edge. 

After  this  there  was  no  more  said  about  Lady  Mabel.  Vixen 
and  Rorie  rode  on  happily  side  by  side,  as  wholly  absorbed  in 
each  other  as  Lancelot  and  Guinevere— when  the  knight  brought 
the  lady  home  through  the  smiling  land,  in  the  glad  boyhood 
of  the  year,  by  tinkling  rivulet  and  shadowy  covert,  and  twisted 
ivy  and  spreading  chestnut  fans — and  with  no  more  thought  of 
Lady  Mabel  than  those  two  had  of  King  Arthur. 

It  was  the  first  of  many  such  rides  in  the  fair  June  weather. 
Vixen  and  Rorie  were  always  meeting  in  that  sweet  pathless 
entanglement  of  oak  and  beech  and  holly,  where  th.e  cattle  line 
of  the  spreading  branches  were  just  high  enough  to  clear  Vixen’s 
coquettish  little  hat,  or  in  the  long,  straight  fir  plantations, 
where  the  light  was  darkened  even  at  noonday,  and  where  the 
slumberous  stillness  was  broken  only  by  the  hum  of  summer 
flies.  It  \vas  hardly  possible,  it  seemed  to  Violet,  for  two  peo- 
ple to  be  always  riding  in  the  forest  without  meeting  each  other 
very  often.  Various  as  the  paths  are,  they  all  cross  somewhere; 
and  what  more  natural  than  to  see  Rorie’s  brown  horse  trotting 
calmly  along  the  grass  by  tlie  way-side,  at  the  first  bend  of  the 
road  ? They  made  no  appointments,  or  were  not  conscious  of 
making  any;  but  they  always  met.  There  was  a fatality  about 
it;  yet  neither  Rorie  nor  Violet  ever  seemed  surprised  at  this 
persistence  of  fate.  They  were  always  glad  to  see  each  other; 
they  had  always  a world  to  tell  each  other.  If  the  earth  had 
been  newly  made  every  day,  with  a new  set  of  beings  to  people 
it,  those  two  could  hardly  have  had  more  to  say. 

“ Darned  if  I can  tell  what  our  young  miss  and  Muster  Vaw- 
drey  can  find  to  talk  about,”  said  honest  old  Bates,  over  his  dish 
of  tea  in  the  servants’  hall;  “ but  their  tongues  ha’  never  done 
wagging.” 

Sometimes  Miss  Tempest  and  Mr.  Vawdrey  went  to  the  ken- 
nels together,  and  idled  away  an  hour  with  the  hounds,  while 
their  horses  stood  at  ease  with  their  bridles  looped  round  the 
five  barred  gate,  their  heads  hanging  lazily  over  the  topmost  bar, 
and  their  big  soft  eyes  dreamily  contemplating  the  opposite  pine 
wood,  with  that  large  capacity  for  perfect  idleness  common  to 
their  species.  Bates  w^as  chewing  a straw  and  swinging  his 
hunting-crop  somewhere  in  attendance.  He  \veut  with  his 
young  mistress  everywhere,  and  played  the  part  of  the  “ dragon 


VmEN. 


213 


of  prudery  placed  within  call;”  but  he  was  a very  amiable  dragon, 
and  nobody  minded  him.  Had  it  come  into  the  minds  of  Rorie 
and  Vixen  to  elope,  Bates  would  not  have  barred  their  way. 
Indeed,  he  would  have  been  very  glad  to  elope  with  them  him- 
self. The  restricted  license  of  the  Abbey  House  had  no  charm 
for  him. 

Whither  were  those  two  drifting  in  the  happy  summer 
weather,  lulled  by  the  whisper  of  forest  leaves  faintly  stirred  by 
the  soft  south  wind,  or  by  the  low  murmur  of  the  forest  river 
stealing  on  its  stealthy  course  under  overarching  boughs,  mys- 
terious as  that  wondrous  river  in  Kubla  Khan’s  dream,  and  anon 
breaking  suddenly  out  into  a clamor  loud  enough  to  startle 
Arion  as  the  waters  came  leaping  and  brawling  over  the  shining 
moss* green  bowlders?  Where  were  these  happy  comrades  going, 
as  they  rode  side  by  side  under  the  glancing  lights  and  wavering 
shadows?  Everybody  knows  what  became  of  Lancelot  and 
Guinevere  after  that  famous  ride  of  theirs.  What  of  these  two 
who  rode  together  day  after  day  in  sun  and  shower,  who  loitered 
and  hngered  in  every  loveliest  nook  in  the  forest,  who  had  the 
same  tastes,  the  same  ideas,  the  same  loves,  the  same  dislikes? 
Neither  dared  ask  that  question.  They  took  the  happiness  fate 
gave  them,  and  sought  not  to  lift  the  veil  of  the  future.  Each 
was  utterly  and  unreasonably  happy,  and  each  knew  very  well 
that  this  deep  and  entire  happiness  was  to  last  no  longer  than 
the  long  summer  days  and  the  dangling  balls  of  blossom  on  the 
beechen  boughs.  Before  the  new  tufts  on  the  fir  branches  had 
lost  their  early  green,  this  midsummer  dream  would  be  over.  It 
was  to  be  brief  as  a school-boy’s  holiday. 

What  was  the  good  of  being  so  happy  only  to  be  so  much  more 
miserable  afterward?  A sensible  young  woman  might  have 
asked  herself  that  question,  but  Violet  Tempest  did  not.  Her 
intentions  were  pure  as  the  innocent  light  shining  out  of  her 
hazel  eyes — a gaze  frank,  direct,  and  fearless  as  a child’s.  She 
had  no  idea  of  tempting  Roderick  to  be  false  to  his  vows.  Had 
Lady  Mabel,  with  her  orchids  and  Greek  plays,  been  alone  in 
question,  Violet  might  have  thought  of  the  matter  more  lightly, 
but  filial  duty  was  involved  in  Rorie’s  fidelity  to  his  betrothed. 
He  had  promised  his  mother  on  her  death-bed*  That  was  a 
promise  not  to  be  broken. 

One  day— a day  forever  to  be  remembered  by  Vixen  and. 
Rorie,  a day  that  stood  cut  in  the  foreground  of  memory’s  pict- 
ure awfully  distinct  from  the  dreamy  happiness  that  went  be- 
fore it — these  two  old  friends  prolonged  their  ride  even  later  than 
usual.  The  weather  was  the  loveliest  that  had  ever  blessed  their 
journeyings — the  sky  Italian,  the  west  wind  just  fresh  enough 
to  fan  their  cheeks,  and  faintly  stir  the  green  feathers  of  the 
ferns  that  grew  breast-high  each  side  of  the  narrow  track. 
The  earth  gave  forth  her  subtlest  perfumes  under  the  fire  of  the 
midsummer  sun.  From  Boldrewood  the  distant  heights  and 
valleys  had  an  Alpine  look  in  the  clear  bright  air,  the  woods  ris- 
ing line  above  line  in  the  far  distance,  in  every  shade  of  color, 
from  deepest  umber  to  emerald-green,  from  the  darkest  purple 
to  traxislueept  azure,  yonder  where  the  furthest  fine  of  verdure 


214 


VIXUJJS. 


met  the  sun-lit  sky.  From  Stony  Cross  the  vast  stretch  of  wood 
and  moor  lay  basking  in  the  warm  vivid  light,  the  yellow  of  the 
dwarf  furze  flashing  in  golden  }>atches  amidst  the  first  bloom  of 
the  crimson  heather.  This  southern  corner  of  Hampshire  was  a 
glorious  world  to  live  in  on  such  a day  as  this.  Violet  and  her 
cavalier  thought  so,  as  their  horses  cantered  up  and  down  the 
smooth  stretch  of  turf  in  front  of  the  Forester’s  Inn. 

‘‘I  don’t  know  what  has  come  to  Arion,”  said  Vixen,  as  she 
checked  her  eager  horse  in  his  endeavor  to  break  into  a mad 
gallop.  “ I think  he  must  be  what  Scotch  people  call  ‘ fey.’  ” 

“ And  pray  what  may  that  mean?”  asked  Rorie,  who  was  like 
the  young  lady  made  famous  by  Sydney  Smith:  what  he  did  not 
know  would  have  made  a big  book. 

Why,  I believe  it  means  that  in  certain  moments  of  life,*  just 
before  the  coming  of  a great  sorrow,  people  are  wildly  gay. 
Sometimes  a man  who  is  doomed  to  die  breaks  out  into  uproar- 
ious mirth,  till  his  friends  wonder  at  him.  Haven’t  you  noticed 
that  sometimes  in  the  accounts  of  suicides  the  suicide’s  friends 
declare  that  he  was  in  excellent  spirits  the  night  before  he  blew 
out  his  brains?” 

“ Then  I hope  I’m  not  ‘fey,’  ” said  Rorie,  “for  I feel  uncom- 
monly jolly.” 

“It’s  only  the  earth  and  sky  that  make  us  feel  happy,”  sighed 
Violet,  with  a sudden  touch  of  seriousness.  “ It  is  but  an  out- 
side happiness,  after  all.” 

“ Perhaps  not;  but  it’s  very  good  of  its  kind.” 

They  went  far  afield  that  day;  as  far  as  the  yews  of  Sloden; 
and  the  sun  was  low  in  the  west  when  Vixen  wished  her  knight 
good-bye,  and  walked  her  horse  down  the  last  long  glade  that 
led  to  the  Abbey  House.  She  was  very  serious  now,  and  felt 
that  she  had  transgressed  a little  by  the  length  of  her  ride. 
Poor  Bates  had  gone  without  his  dinner,  and  that  dismal  yawn 
of  his  just  now  doubtless  indicated  a painful  vacuity  of  thu 
inner  man.  Rorie  and  she  were  able  to  live  upon  air  and  sun- 
shine, the  scent  of  the  clover,  and  the  freshness  of  the  earth; 
but  Bates  was  of  the  lower  type  of  humanity,  which  requires  to 
be  sustained  by  beef  and  beer;  and  for  Bates  this  day  of  sylvan 
bliss  had  been  perhaps  a period  of  deprivation  and  suffering. 

Violet  had  been  accustomed  to  be  at  home  and  freslfly  dressed 
in  time  for  Mrs.  Carmichael’s  afternoon  tea.  She  had  to  listen 
to  the  accumulated  gossip  of  the  day — complaints  about  the 
servants,  praises  of  Conrad,  speculations  upon  impending  changes 
of  fashion  which  threatened  to  convulse  the  world  over  which 
Theodore  presided;  for  the  world  of  fashion  seems  ever  on  the 
verge  of  a crisis  awful  as  that  which  periodically  disrupts  the 
French  Chamber. 

To  have  been  absent  from  afternoon  tea  was  a breach  of  filial 
duty  which  the  mild  Pamela  would  assuredly  resent.  Violet 
felt  herself  doomed  to  one  of  tliose  gentle  lectures  which  w^ere 
worrying  as  the  perpetual  dropping  of  rain.  She  was  very  late 
■ — dreadfully  late;  the  dressing-bell  rang  as  she  rode  into  the 
stable-yard.  Not  caring  to  show  herself  at  the  porch,  lest  h^f 
mother  and  the  captain  should  be  sitting  in  the  hall  ready  to 


VIXEN. 


215 


pronounce  judgment  upon  her  misconduct,  she  ran  quickly  up 
to  her  dressing-room,  plunged  her  face  into  cold  water,  shook 
out  her  bright  hair,  brushed  and  plaited  the  long  tresses  with 
deft  swift  lingers,  put  on  her  pretty  dinner  dress  of  pale  blue 
muslin  fluttering  all  over  with  pale  blue  bows,  and  went  smiling 
down  to  the  drawing-room  like  a new  Hebe  dressed  in  an  azure 
cloud. 

Mrs.  Carmichael  was  sitting  by  an  open  window,  while  the 
captain  stood  outside  and  tal&d  to  her  in  a low  confidential 
voice.  His  face  had  a dark  look  which  Vixen  knew  and  hated, 
and  his  wile  was  listening  with  trouble  in  lier  air  and  counte- 
nance. Vixen,  who  meant  to  have  marched  straight  up  to  her 
mother  and  made  her  apologies,  drew  back  involuntarily  at  the 
sight  of  those  two  faces. 

Just  at  this  moment  the  dinner-bell  rang.  The  captain  gave 
his  wife  his  arm,  and  the  two  passed  Vixen  without  a word. 
She  followed  them  to  the  dining-room,  wondering  what  was 
coming. 

The  dinner  began  in  silence,  and  then  Mrs.  Carmichael  began 
to  falter  fortli  small  remarks,  feeble  as  the  twitterings  of  birds 
before  the  coming  storm.  How  very  warm  it  had  been  all  day. 
almost  oppressive;  and  yet  it  had  been  a remarkably  fine  day. 
There  was  a fair  at  Emery  Down— at  least  not  exactly  a fair, 
but  a barrow  of  nuts,  and  some  horrid  pistols,  and  a swing, 
Violet  answered,  as  in  duty  bound;  but  the  captain  maintained 
his  ominous  silence.  Not  a word  was  said  about  Violets  long 
ride.  It  seemed  hardly  necessary  to  apologize  for  her  absence, 
since  her  mother  made  no  complaint.  Yet  she  felt  that  there 
was  a storm  coming. 

“ Perhaps  he  is  going  to  sell  Arion,”  she  thought,  ‘‘  and  that’s 
why  the  dear  thing  was  ‘ fey.’  ” 

And  then  that  rebellious  spirit  of  hers  arose  within  her,  ready 
for  war. 

“No,  I would  not  endure  that.  I would  not  part  with  my 
father's  last  gift.  I shall  be  rich  seven  years  hence,  if  I live  so 
long.  I’ll  do  what  the  young  spendthrifts  do:  I’ll  go  to  tlie 
Jews.  I will  not  be  Captain  Carmichael’s  helot.  One  slave  is 
enough  for  him,  I should  think.  He  has  enslaved  poor  mamma 
Look  at  her  now,  poor  soul!  she  sits  in  bodily  fear  of  him,  crum* 
bling  her  bread  with  her  pretty  fingers,  shining  and  sparkling 
with  rings.  Poor  mamma!  it  is  a.  bad  day  for  her  when  fine 
dresses  and  handsome  jewels  cannot  make  her  happy.” 

It  was  a miserable  dinner.  Those  three  were  not  w’ont  to  be 
gay  when  they  sat  at  meat  together;  but  the  dinner  of  to-day 
was  of  a gloomier  pattern  than  usual.  The  strawberries  and 
cherries  were  carried  round  solemnly,  the  captain  filled  his  glass 
with  claret,  Mrs.  Carmichael  dipped  the  ends  of  her  fingers  into 
the  turquois-colored  glass,  and  disseminated  a faint  odor  of 
roses. 

“ I think  I’ll  go  and  sit  in  the  garden,  Conrad,”  she  said,  when 
she  had  dried  those  tapering  fingers  cu  her  fringed  doily.  “It’s 
so  warm  in  the  house.” 


216 


VIXEN. 


“ Do,  doar.  Ill  come  and  smoke  my  cigar  on  the  lawn  pres* 
ently,”  answered  the  captain. 

“ Can’t  you  come  at  once,  love?” 

“ I’ve  a little  bit  of  business  to  settle  first.  I won’t  be  long.” 

Mrs.  Carmichael  kissed  her  hand  to  her  husband,  and  left  the 
room,  rollowed  by  Vixen. 

‘‘Violet,”  she  said,  when  they  were  outside,  “how  could  you 
stay  out  SO  long?  Conrad  is  dreadfully  angry.” 

“ Your  husband  angry  because  I rode  a few  miles  further  to- 
day than  usual?  Dear  mother,  that  is  too  absurd.  I was  sorry 
not  to  be  at  home  in  time  to  give  you  your  afternoon  tea,  and  I 
apologize  to  you  with  all  my  heart;  but  what  can  it  matter  to 
Captain  Carmichael  ?” 

“ My  dearest  Violet,  when  will  you  understand  that  Conrad 
stands  in  the  place  of  your  dear  father  ?” 

“ Never,  mamma,  for  that  is  not  true.  God  gave  me  one 
father,  and  I loved  and  honored  him  with  all  my  heart.  There 
is  no  sacrifice  he  could  have  asked  of  me  that  I would  not  have 
made;  no  command  of  his,  however  difficult,  that  I would  not ' 
have  obeyed.  But  I will  obey  no  spurious  father.  I recognize 
no  duty  that  I owe  to  Captain  Carmichael.” 

“You  are  a very  cruel  girl,”  wailed  Pamela,  “and  your  ob- 
stinacy is  making  my  life  miserable.” 

“ Dear  mother,  how  do  I interfere  with  your  happiness  ? You 
live  your  life,  and  I mine.  You  and  Captain  Carmichael  take 
your  own  way,  I mine.  Is  it  a crime  to  be  out  riding  a little 
longer  th^  usual,  that  you  should  look  so  pale  and  the  captain 
so  black  when  I come  home?” 

“ It  is  worse  than  a crime,  Violet;  It  is  an  impropriety.” 

Vixen  blushed  crimson,  and  turned  upon  her  mother  with  an 
expresison  that  was  half  startled,  half  indignant. 

“What  do  you  mean,  mamma?” 

“Had  you  been  riding  about  the  forest  all  those  hours  alone, 
it  would  have  been  eccentric — unladylike — masculine  even.  You 
know  that  your  habit  of  passing  half  y^ur  existence  on  horse- 
back has  always  been  a grief  to  me.  But  you  were  not  alone.” 

“ No,  mamma,  I was  not  alone.  I had  my  oldest  friend  with 
me;  one  of  tlie  few  people  in  this  big  world  who  care  for  me.” 

“You  were  riding  about  with  Eoderick  Vawdrey,  Lady  Mabel 
Ashbourne’s  future  husband.” 

“ Why  do  you  remind  me  of  his  engagement,  mamma?  Do  you 
think  that  Roderick  and  I have  even  forgotten  it?  Can  he  not 
be  mv  friend  as  well  as  Lady  Mabel's  husband  ?”  Am  I to  forget 
that  te  and  I played  together  as  children,  that  we  have  always 
thought  of  each  other  and  cared  for  each  other  as  brother  and 
sister,  only  because  he  is  engaged  to  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne?” 

“Violet,  you  must  know  that  all  talk  about  brother  and  sister 
is  sheer  nonsense.  Suppose  I had  set  up  brother  and  sister  with 
Captain  Carmichael  I What  would  you — what  would  the  world 
have  thought?” 

“ That  would  have  been  different,”  said  Vixen.  “ You  did  not 
know  each  other  as  babies.  In  fact  you  couldn’t  have  done  so, 


VIXEN.  217 

for  you  had  left  off  being  a baby  before  he  was  born,”  added 
Vixen,  naively. 

“You  will  have  to  put  a stop  to  these  rides  with  Eoderick. 
Everybody  in  the  neighborhood  is  talking  about  you.” 

“ Which  everybody?” 

“Colonel  Carteret,  to  begin  with.” 

“Colonet  Carteret  slanders  everybody.  It  is  his  only  intel- 
lectual resource.  Dearest  mother,  be  your  own  sweet  easy-tem- 
pered self,  not  a speaking-tube  for  Captain  Carmichael.  Pray  a 
leave  me  my  liberty.  I am  not  particularly  happy.  You  might 
at  least  let  me  be  free.” 

Violet  left  her  mother  with  these  words.  They  had  reached 
the  lawn  before  the  drawing-room  windows.  Mrs.  Carmichael 
sank  into  a low  basket-chair,  like  a hall  porter’s,  which  a friend 
had  sent  her  from  the  sands  of  Trouville;  and  Vixen  ran  off  to 
the  stables  to  see  if  Arion  was  in  any  way  the  worse  for  his  long 
round. 

The  horses  had  been  littered  down  for  the  night,  and  the 
stable-yard  was  empty.  The  faithful  Bates,  who  was  usually  to 
be  found  at  this  hour  smoking  his  evening  pipe  on  a stone  bench 
beside  the  stable  pump,  was  nowhere  in  sight.  Vixen  went  into 
Arion ’s  loose  box,  where  that  animal  was  nibbling  clover  lazily, 
standing  knee-deep  in  freshly  spread  straw,  his  fine  legs  care- 
fully bandaged.  He  gave  his  mistress  the  usual  grunt  of 
friendly  greeting,  allowed  her  to  feed  him  with  the  choicest  bits 
of  clover,  and  licked  her  hands  in  token  of  gratitude. 

“I  don’t  think  you’re  any  the  worse  for  our  canter  over  the 
grass,  old  pet,”  she  cried,  cheerily,  as  she  caressed  his  sleek 
head,  “ and  Captain  Carmichael’s  black  looks  can*t  hurt  you.” 

As  she  left  the  stable  she  saw  Bates,  who  was  walking  slowly 
across  the  court-j^ard,  wiping  his  honest  old  eyes  with  the  cuff 
of  his  drab  coat,  and  hanging  his  grizzled  head  dejectedly. 

Vixen  ran  to  him  with  her  cheeks  aflame,  divining  mischief. 
The  captain  had  been  wreaking  his  spite  upon  this  lowly  head. 

“What’s  the  matter,  Bates?” 

“I’ve  lived  in  this  house,  Miss  Voylet,  man  and  boy,  forty 
year  come  Michaelmas,  and  I’ve  never  wronged  my  master  by  so 
much  as  the  worth  of  a handful  o’  wuts  or  a carriage  candle.  I 
was  stable-boy  in  your  grandfeyther’s  time,  miss,  as  is  well  be- 
known  to  you;  and  I remembcT  your  feyther  when  he  was  the 
finest  and  handsomest  3^oung  squire  within  fifty  mile.  I’ve  loved 
you  and  yours  better  than  I ever  loved  my  own  flesh  and  blood; 
and  to  go  and  pluck  me  up  by  the  roots  and  chuck  me  out’amongst  i 
strangers  in  my  old  age  is  crueler  than  it  would  be  to  tear  up  the 
old  cedar  on  the  lawn,  which  I’ve  heard  Joe  the  gardener  say  be 
as  old  as  tlie  days  when  such-like  trees  was  fust  beknown  in 
England.  It’s  crueler.  Miss  Voylet,  for  the  cedar  ain’t  got  no 
feelings;  but  I feel  it  down  to  the  deepest  fibers  in  me.  The 
lawnud  look  ugly  and  empty  without  the  cedar,  and  mayhap  no- 
body ’ll  miss  me;  but  I’ve  got  the  heart  of  a man,  miss,  and  it 
bleeds.” 

Poor  Bates  relieved  his  wounded  feelings  with  this  burst  of 
eloquence.  He  was  a man  who,  although  silent  in  his  normal 


VIXEN. 


gl8 

condition,  had  a great  deal  to  say  when  he  felt  aggrieved.  In 
his  present  state  of  mind,  his  only  solace  was  in  many  words. 

“ I don’t  know  what  you  mean,  Bates,”  cried  Vixen,  very  pale 
now,  divining  the  truth  in  part,  if  not  wholly.  “Don’t  cry, 
dear  old  fellow;  it’s  too  dreadful  to  see  you.  You  don’t  mean — 
you  can’t  mean — that — my  mother  has  sent  you  away  !” 

“ Not  your  ma,  miss,  bless  her  heart!  She  wouldn’t  sack  the 
servant  that  saddled  her  husband’s  horse,  fair  weathei  and  foul, 
for  twenty  years.  No,  Miss  Voylet,  it’s  Captain  Carmichael 
that’s  given  me  the  sack.  He’s  master  here  now,  you  know, 
miss.” 

“But  for  what  reason  ! What  have  you  done  to  olfend  him  ?” 

“Ah,  miss,  there’s  the  hardship  of  it!  He’s  turned  me  off  at 
a minute’s  notice,  and  without  a character,  too.  That’s  hard, 
ain’t  it,  miss  ? Forty  years  in  one  service,  and  to  leave  without 
a character  at  last!  That  do  cut  a old  feller  to  the  quick.” 

“Why  don't  you  tell  me  the  reason.  Bates?  Captain  Car- 
michael must  have  given  you  his  reason  for  such  a cruel  act.” 

“ He  did,  miss;  but  I ain’t  going  to  tell  you.” 

“Why  not,  in  goodness’  name?” 

“ Because  it’s  an  insult  to  you,  Miss  Voylet;  and  I’m  not  going 
to  insult  my  old  master’s  granddaughter.  If  I didn’t  love  you 
for  your  ov/n  sake — and  I do  dearly  love  you,  miss,  if  you’ll  ex- 
cuse the  liberty — I'm  bound  to  love  you  for  the  sake  of  your 
grandfeyther.  He  was  my  first  master,  and  a kind  one.  He 
gave  me  my  first  pair  o’  tops.  Lor’,  miss,  I can  call  to  mind  the 
day  as  well  as  if  it  was  yesterday.  Didn’t  I fancy  myself  a buck 
in  ’em!” 

Bates  grinned  and  sparkled  at  the  thought  of  those  first  top- 
boots.  His  poor  old  eyes,  dim  with  years  of  long  service, 
twinkled  with  the  memory  of  these  departed  vanities. 

“Bates,”  cried  Vixen,  locking  at  him  resolutely,  “I  insist 
upoU  knowing  what  reason  Captain  Carmichael  alleged  for  send- 
ing you  away.” 

“ He  didn’t  allege  nothing,  miss;  and  I ain’t  a-going  to  tell  you 
what  he  said.’’ 

“But  you  must.  I order  you  to  tell  me.  You  are  still  my 
servant,  remember.  You  have  always  been  a faithful  servant 
and  1 am  sure  you  won’t  disobey  me  at  the  last.  I insist  upon 
knowing  what  Captain  Carmichael  said;  however  insulting  hifi 
words  may  have  been  to  me,  they  will  not  surprise  or  wound 
^ me  much.  There  is  no  love  lost  between  him  and  me.  I think 
everybody  knows  that.  Don’t  be  afraid  of  giving  me  pain. 
Bates.  Nothing  the  captain  could  say  would  do  that.  I despise 
him  too  much.” 

“ I’m  right  down  glad  ’o  that,  miss.  Go  on  a-despising  of 
him.  You  can’t  give  it  him  as  thick  as  he  deserves.” 

“Now,  Bates,  what  did  he  say"  ' 

“He  said  I was  a old  fool,  miss,  c..  a old  rogue,  he  weren’t 
quite  clear  in  his  mind  which.  I’d  been  actin’  as  go-between 
with  you  and  Mr.  Vowdrey,  encouragin’  of  you  to  meet  the 
)70ung  gentleman  in  your  rides,  and  never  givin’  the  cap’en 
warnin’,  as  your  step-fe^^her,  of  what  was  goin’  on  behind  his 


VIXEN. 


219 


back.  He  said  it  was  shameful,  and  you  were  makin’  yourself 
the  talk  of  the  county,  and  I was  no  better  than  I should  be  fot 
aidin’  and  abettin’  of  you  in  disgracin’  yourself.  And  then  1 
blazed  up  a bit,  miss,  and  maybe  I cheeked  him;  and  then  he 
turned  upon  me  sharp  and  short,  and  told  me  to  get  out  of  the 
house  this  night,  bag  and  baggage,  and  never  to  apply  to  him 
for  a character;  and  then  he  counted  out  my  wages  on  the  table, 
miss,  up  to  this  evening,  exact  to  a half-penny,  by  way  of  sbow« 
ing  me  that  he  meant  business,  perhaps.  But  I came  away  and 
left  his  brass  upon  the  table,  staring  him  in  the  face.  I ain’t  no 
paupiT,  praise  be  to  God!  I’ve  had  a good  place,  and  I’ve  saved 
money,  and  I needn’t  lower  myself  by  taking  his  dirty  half- 
pence.” 

“ And  you’re  going  away,  Bates,  to-night  ?”  exclaimed  Vixen, 
hardly  afte  to  realize  this  calamity. 

That  Captain  Carmichael  should  have  spoken  insultingly  of 
her  and  of  Korie  touched  her  but  lightly.  She  had  spoken  truly 
just  now  when  she  said  that  she  scorned  him  too  much  to  be 
easily  wounded  by  his  insolence.  But  that  he  should  dismiss 
her  father  s old  servant  as  he  had  sold  her  father’s  old  horse; 
that  this  good  old  man,  who  had  grown  from  boyhood  to  age 
under  her  ancestral  roof,  who  remembered  her  father  in  the 
bloom  and  giory  of  early  youth;  that  this  faithful  servant  should 
be  thus  thrust  out  at  the  bidding  of  an  interloper — a paltry 
schemer,  who,  in  Vixen’s  estimation,  had  been  actuated  by  the 
basest  and  most  mercenary  motives  when  he  married  her  moth- 
er— that  these  things  should  be,  moved  Violet  Tempest  with  an 
overwhelming  anger. 

She  kept  her  passion  under,  so  far  as  to  speak  very  calmly  to 
Bates.  Her  face  was  white  with  suppressed  rage,  her  great, 
brown  eyes  shone  with  angry  fire,  her  lips  quivered  as  she  spoke, 
and  the  rings  on  one  clinched  hand  were  ground  into  the  flesh 
of  the  slender  fingers. 

“Never  mind.  Bates,”  she  said,  very  gently;  “ I’ll  get  you  a 
good  place  before  ten  o’clock  to-night.  Pack  up  your  clothes, 
and  be  ready  to  go  where  I tell  you  two  hours  hence.  But  first 
saddle  Arion.” 

“ Bless  yer  heart.  Miss  Voylet,  you’re  not  going  out  riding  this 
evening  ? Arion’s  done  a long  day’s  work.” 

“ I know  that;  but  he’s  fresh  enough  to  do  as  much  more — I’ve 
just  been  looking  at  him.  Saddle  him  at  once,  and  keep  him 
ready  in  his  stable  till  I come  for  him.  Don’t  argue.  Bates.  If 
I knew  that  I were  going  to  ride  him  to  death,  I should  ride  him 
to-night  all  tlie  same.  You  are  dismissed  without  a character, 
are  you?”  cried  Vixen,  laughing  bitterly.  “Never  mind,  Bates; 
I’ll  give  you  a character,  and  I’ll  get  you  a place.” 

She  ran  lightly  off,  and  was  gone,  while  Bates  stood  stock- 
still, wondering  at  her.  There  never  was  such  a young  lady. 
"What  was  there  in  life  that  he  would  not  have  done  for  her — 
were  it  to  the  shedding  of  blood  ? And  to  think  he  was  no 
more  to  serve  and  follow  her — no  longer  to  jog  contentedly 
through  the  pine-scented  forest,  watching  the  meteoric  course 
of  that  graceful  figure  in  front  of  him,  the  lively  young  horse 


220 


VIXEN. 


curbed  by  the  light  and  dexterous  hand,  the  ruddy  brown  hair 
glittering  in  the  sunlight,  the  flexible  form  moving  in  unison 
with  every  motion  of  the  horse  that  carried  it ! There  could  be 
no  deeper  image  of  desolation  in  Bates's  mind  than  the  idea 
that  this  rider  and  horse  were  to  be  henceforth  severed  from 
his  existencOo  What  bad  lie  in  life  save  th.e  familiar  things  and 
faces  among  which  he  had  grown  from  youth  to  age  ? Separate 
him  from  these  beloved  surroundings,  and  he  had  no  stand-point 
in  the  universe.  The  reason  of  his  being  would  be  gone.  Bates 
was  as  strictly  local  in  his  ideas  as  the  zoophyte  which  has  clung 
all  its  life  to  one  rock. 

He  went  to  the  harness-room  for  Miss  Tempest’s  well-worn 
saddle,  and  brought  Arion  out  of  his  snug  box,  and  wisped  and 
combed  him,  and  blacked  his  shoes,  and  made  him  altogether 
lovely — a process  to  which  the  intelligent  animal  was  inclined 
to  take  objection,  the  hour  being  unseemly  and  unusual.  Poor 
Bates  sighed  over  his  task,  and  brushed  away  more  than  one 
silent  tear  with  the  back  of  the  dandy-brush.  It  was  kind  of 
Miss  Violet  to  think  about  getting  him  a place,  but  he  had  no 
heart  for  going  into  a new  service.  He  would  rather  have  taken 
a room  in  one  of  the  Beechdale  cottages,  and  have  dragged  out 
the  remnant  of  his  days  within  sight  of  the  chimney-stacks  be- 
neath which  he  nad  slept  for  forty  years.  He  had  money  in  the 
bank  that  would  last  until  his^iees  of  life  were  spilled,  and  then 
he  would  be  buried  in  the  church-yard  he  had  crossed''  every 
Sunday  of  his  life  on  his  way  to  morning  service.  His  kindred 
were  all  dead  or  distant — the  nearest,  a married  niece,  settled  at 
Hornsey,  which  good  old  humdrum  market- town  was — except 
once  a week  or  so  by  carrier’s  cart — almost  as  unapproachable  as 
the  Bermudas.  He  was  not  going  to  migrate  to  Romsey  for  the 
sake  of  a married  niece,  when  he  could  stop  at  Beechdale,  and 
see  the  gables  and  chimneys  of  the  home  from  which  stern  fate 
had  banished  him. 

He  had  scarcely  finished  Arion’s  toilet  when  Miss  Tempest 
opened  the  stable  door  and  looked  in  ready  to  mount.  She  had 
her  hunting-crop,  with  the  strong  horn  hook  for  opening  gates, 
her  short  habit,  and  looked  altogether  ready  for  business. 

“ Hadn't  I better  come  with  you?”  Bates  asked,  as  he  lifted 
her  into  her  saddle. 

“ No,  Bates:  you  are  dismissed,  you  know.  It  wouldn’t  do  for 
you  to  take  one  of  Captain  Cai  michael’s  horses.  He  might  havo 
you  sent  to  prison  for  horse-stealing.” 

“ Lord,  miss,  so  he  might  I”  said  Bates,  grinning.  I reckon 
he’s  capable  of  it.  But  I cheeked  him  pretty  strong.  Miss  Voy let. 
The  thought  o’  that  ’ll  always  be  a comfort  to  me.  You  wouldn’t 
ha’  knowed  me  for  your  feyther’s  old  sarvant  if  you’d  heard  me. 

I felt  as  if  Satan  had  got  hold  o’  my  tongue,  and  was  wagging 
it  for  me,  the  words  came  so  pat.  It  seemed  as  if  I’d  got  all  the 
dictionary  at  the  tip  of  my  poor  old  tongue.'’ 

“ Open"  the  gate,”  said  Vixen.  “ I am  going  out  by  the  wil- 
derness.” 

Bates  opened  the  gate  under  the  old  brick  archway,  and  Vixen 
rode  slowly  away,  by  unfrequented  thickets  of  rhododendron 


VIXEN. 


221 


and  arbutus,  holly  and  laurel,  with  a tall  mountain  ash,  or  a 
stately  deodora  rising  up  among  them  here  and  there  dark 
against  the  opal  evening  sky. 

It  was  a lovely  evening.  The  crescent  moon  rode  high  above 
the  tree-tops;  the  sunset  was  still  red  in  the  west.  The  secret 
depths  of  the  wood  gave  forth  their  subtle  perfume  in  the  cool, 
calm  air.  The  birds  were  singing  in  suppressed  and  secret  tones 
, among  the  low  branches.  Now  and  then  a bat  skimmed  across 
the  open  glade  and  melted  into  the  woodland  darkness,  or  a rab- 
bit flitted  past,  gray  and  ghostlike.  It  was  an  hour  when  the 
w^oods  assumed  an  awful  beauty.  Not  to  meet  ghosts  seemed 
stranger  than  to  meet  them.  The  shadows  of  the  dead  would 
have  been  in  harmony  with  the  mystic  loveliness  of  this  green 
solitude — a world  remote  from  the  track  of  men. 

Even  to-night,  though  her  heart  was  swelling  with  indignant 
pain,  Violet  felt  all  the  beauty  of  these  familiar  scenes.  They 
were  a part  of  her  life,  and  so  long  as  she  lived  she  must  love 
and  rejoice  in  them.  To-night  as  she  rode  quietly  along,  care- 
ful not  to  hurry  Arion  after  his  long  day’s  work,  she  looked 
around  her  with  eyes  full  of  deep  love  and  melancholy  yearn- 
ing. It  seemed  to  her  to-night  that  out  of  all  that  had  been 
sweet  and  lovely  in  her  life  only  these  forest  scenes  remained. 
Humanity  had  not  been  kind  to  her.  The  dear  father  had  been 
snatched  away  just  when  she  had  grown  to  the  height  of  his 
stout  heart,  and  had  fullest  comprehension  of  his  love,  and 
greatest  need  of  his  protection.  Her  mother  was  a gentle,  smil- 
ing puppet,  to  whom  it  were  vain  to  appeal  in  her  necessities. 
Her  mother's  husband  was  an  intplacable  enemy.  Eorie,  the 
friend  of  her  childhood — who  might  have  been  so  much — had 
given  himself  to  another.  She  was  quite  alone. 

“ The  charcoal-burner  in  Mark  Ash  is  not  so  solitary  as  I am,’^ 
thought  Vixen,  bitterly.  ‘‘  Charcoal-burning  is  only  part  of 
his  life.  He  has  his  wife  and  children  in  his  cottage  at  home.” 

By  and  by  she  came  out  of  the  winding  forest  ways  into  the 
straight  high-road  that  led  to  Briarwood;  and  now  she  put  her 
horse  at  a smart  trot,  for  it  was  growing  dark  already,  and  she 
calculated  that  it  must  be  nearly  eleven  o’clock  before  she  could 
accomplish  what  she  had  to  do  and  get  back  to  the  Abbey  House. 
And  at  eleven  doors  were  locked  for  the  night,  and  Captain  Car- 
michael made  a circuit  of  inspection  as  severely  as  the  keeper 
of  a prison.  What  would  be  said  if  she  should  not  get  home 
till  after  the  gates  were  locked,  and  the  keys  delivered  over  to 
that  stern  janitor? 

At  last  Briarwood  came  in  sight  above  the  dark  clumps  of 
beach  and  oak — a white  portico,  shining  lamp-lit  windows. 
The  lodge-gate  stood  hospitably  open,  and  Violet  rode  in  with- 
out question,  and  up  to  the  pillared  porch. 

Roderick  Vawdrey  was  standing  in  the  porch,  smoking.  He 
threw  away  his  cigar  as  Vixen  rode  up,  and  ran  down  the  steps 
to  receive  her. 

“Why,  Violet,  what  has  happened?”  he  asked,  with  an 
alarmed  look. 

It  seemed  to  him.  that  ^nly  sudden  death  or  dire  calamity 


VIXEN. 


could  bring  ber  to  him  thus,  in  the  late  gloaming,  pale,  antfi 
deeply  moved.  Her  lips  trembled  faintly  as  she  looked  at  him, 
and  for  the  moment  she  could  find  no  words  to  tell  her  trouble. 

“ What  is  it,  Violet?”  he  asked  again,  holding  her  gloved  hand 
in  his,  and  looking  up  at  her,  full  of  sympathy  and  concern. 

“ Not  very  much,  perhaps,  in  your  idea  of  things,  but  it  seems 
a great  deal  to  me.  And  it  has  put  me  into  a tremendous  pas- 
sion. I have  come  to  ask  you  to  do  me  a favor.” 

“ A thousand  favors  if  you  like;  and  when  they  are  all  granted, 
the  obligation  shall  be  stiil  on  my  side.  But  come  into  the  draw- 
ing-room and  rest,  and  let  me  get  you  some  tea — lemonade — 
wine — something  to  refresh  you  after  your  long  ride.” 

“Nothing,  thanks.  I am  not  going  to  get  of  my  horse.  I 
must  not  lose  a moment.  Why,  it  must  be  long  after  nine’  al- 
ready, and  Captain  Carmichael  locks  up  the  house  at  eleven.” 

Eorie  did  not  care  to  tell  her  that  it  was  on  the  stroke  of  ten. 
He  called  in  a stentorian  voice  for  a servant,  and  told  the  man  to 
get  Blue  Peter  saddled  that  instant. 

“ Where’s  your  groom,  Violet  ?”  he  asked,  wondering  to  see 
her  unattended. 

“I  have  no  groom.  That’s  just  what  I came  to  tell  you. 
Captain  Carmichael  has  dismissed  Bates,  at  a minute’s  warning, 
without  a character.” 

“Dismissed  old  Bates,  your  father’s  faithful  seiwantl  But  in 
Heaven’s  name  what  for  ?” 

“ I would  rather  not  tell  you  that.  The  alleged  reason  is  an 
insult  to  me.  I can  tell  you  tliat  it  is  not  for  dishonesty,  or 
lying,  or  drunkenness,  or  insolence,  or  any  act  that  a good  servant 
need  be  ashamed  of.  The  poor  old  man  is  cast  off  for  a fault  of 
mine — or  for  an  act  of  mine,  which  Captain  Carmichael  pleases 
to  condemn.  He  is  thrust  , out  of  doors,  homeless,  without  a 
character,  after  forty  years  of  faithful  service.  He  was 
with  my  grandfather,  you  know.  Now,  Eorie,  I want  you 
to  take  Bates  into  your  service.  He  is  not  so  ornamental 
as  a young  man,  perhaps,  but  he  is  ever  so  much  more 
useful.  He  is  faithful  and  industrious,  honest  and  true.  He  is 
a capital  nurse  for  sick  horses:  and  I have  heard  my  dear  father 
say  that  he  know^s  more  than  the  common  run  of  veterinary 
surgeons.  I don’t  think  you  would  find  him  an  incumbrance. 
Now,  dear  Eorie,”  she  concluded,  coaxingly,  with  innocent 
childish  entreaty,  almost  as  if  they  had  still  been  children  and 
playfellows,  “ I w^ant  you  to  do  this  for  me — 1 w^ant  you  to  take 
Bates.” 

“Why,  you  dear  simple-minded  baby,  I would  take  a regi- 
ment of  Bateses  for  your  sake.  Why,  this  is  not  a favor ” 

“ ‘ ’Tis  as  1 should  entreat  you  wear  your  gloves,’  ” cried  Vixen, 
quoting  Desdemona’s  speech  to  her  general. 

Eorie’s  ready  promise  had  revived  her  spirit.  She  felt  that, 
after  all,  there  was  such  a thing  as  friendship  in  the  world.  Life 
w^as  not  altogether  blank  and  dreary.  She  forgot  that  her  old 
friend  had  given  himself  away  to  another  woman.  She  had  a 
knack  of  forgetting  that  little  fact  when  she  and  Eorie  were  to- 


VIXEN. 


223 


gether.  It  was  only  in  her  hours  of  solitude  that  the  circum- 
stance presented  itself  distinctly  to  her  mind. 

I am  so  grateful  to  you  for  this,  Rorie,”  she  cried.  “ I can-- 
not  tell  you  what  a load  you  have  taken  off  my  mind.  I felt 
sure  you  would  do  me  this  favor.  And  yet,  if  you  bad  said  Nol 
It  would  have  been  too  dreadful  to  think  of.  Poor  old  Bates 
loafing  about  Beechdale,  living  upon  his  savings!  I shall  be  able 
to  pension  him  by  and  by,  when  I am  of  age;  but  now  I have 
only  a few  pounds  in  the  world,  the  remains  of  a quarter’s 
pocket-money,  according  to  the  view  and  allowance  of  the  for- 
ester,” added  Vixen,  quoting  the  Forest  law,  with  a little  mock- 
ing laugh.  “ And  now  good-night;  I must  go  home  as  fast  as  I 
can.” 

“So  you  must,  but  I am  coming  with  you,”  answered  Rorie; 
and  then  he  roared  again  in  his  stentorian  voice  in  the  direction 
of  the  stables:  “ Where’s  that  Blue  Peter?” 

“ Indeed,  there  is  no  reason  for  you  to  come,”  cried  Vixen, 
“ I know  every  inch  of  the  Forest.” 

“ Very  likely;  but  I am  coming  with  you  all  the  same.” 

A groom  led  out  Blue  Peter — a strong,  useful-looking^  hack, 
which  Mr.  Vawdrey  kept  to  do  his  dirty  work:  hunting  in  bad 
weather,  night-work,  and  extra  journeys  of  all  kinds.  Rorie 
was  in  the  saddle  and  l)y  Vixen’s  side  without  a minute’s  lest 
time,  and  they  were  riding  out  of  the  grounds  into  the  straight 
road. 

They  rode  for  a considerable  time  in  silence.  Vixen  had  seldom 
seen  her  old  friend  so  thoughtful.  The  night  deepened;  the 
stars  shone  out  of  the  clear  heaven,  at  first  one  by  one,  and  then 
suddenly  in  a multitude  that  no  tongue  could  number.  The 
leaves  whispered  and  rustled  with  faint,  mysterious  noises,  as 
Violet  and  her  companion  rode  slowly  down  the  long,  steep  hill. 

“ AVhat  a beast  that  Carmichael  is!”  said  Rorie  when  they  got 
to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  as  if  lie  bad  been  all  this  time  arriving 
at  an  opinion  about  Violet’s  step-father.  “ I’m  afraid  he  must 
make  your  life  miserable.” 

“ He  doesn’t  make  it  particularly  happy,”  answered  Vixen, 
quietly;  “ but  I never  expected  to  be  hapi>y  after  mamma  mar- 
ried. I did  not  think  there  was  much  happiness  left  for  me  after 
my  father’s  deatli;  but  there  was  at  least  peace.  Captain  Car- 
michael has  made  an  end  of  that.” 

“ He  is  a wretch,  and  I should  like  to  shoot  him,”  said  Rorie, 
vindictively.  Dear  little  Vixen — yes,  I must  call  you  by  the 
old  pet  name — to  think  that  you  should  be  miserable,  you  whom 
1 remember  so  bright  and  happy,  you  who  were  born  for  happ; 
ness!  But  you  are  not  always  wretched,  dear,”  he  said,  leaning 
over  to  speak  to  her  in  closer,  more  confidential  tones,  as  if  the 
sleepy  birds  and  the  whispering  forest  leaves  could  hear  and  be- 
tray him.  “ You  were  happy — we  were  happy —this  morning.” 

He  had  laid  his  hand  on  hers.  That  useful  Blue  Peter  needed 
no  guidance.  They  were  just  leaving  the  road,  and  entering  a 
long  glade  that  led  through  a newly  opened  fir  plantation — a 
straight  ride  of  a mile  and  a lialf  or  so.  The  young  moon  was 
gleaming  cool  and  clear  above  the  feathering  points  of  the  firs. 


224 


VIXEN. 


'‘Yes,”  she  answered,  recklessly,  involuntarily,  witli  a stifled 
sob,  “I  am  always  happy  with  you.  You  are  all  that  remains 
to  me  of  my  old  life,” 

“My  dearest,  my  loveliest,  then  be  happy  forever!”  he  cried, 
winding  his  arm  round  her  slim  waist,  and  leaning  over  lier  till 
his  head  almost  rested  on  her  shoulder.  Their  horses  were  close 
together,  walking  at  a foot-pace.  Blue  Peter  in  nowise  discon- 
certed by  this  extraordinary  behavior  of  his  rider.  “My  love, 
if  you  can  be  happy  at  so  small  a price,  be  happy  always!”  said 
Eorie,  his  lips  close  to  the  girl’s  pale  cheek,  his  arm  feeling  every 
beat  of  the  passionate  heart.  “ I will  break  the  toils  that  bind 
me.  I will  be  yours,  and  yours  only.  I have  never  truly  loved 
any  one  but  you.  and  I have  loved  you  all  my  life — I never  knew 
how  dearly  till  of  late.  No.  dearest  love,  never  did  I know 
how  utterly  I loved  you  till  these  last  summer  days  which  we 
have  lived  together,  alone  and  supremely  happy,  in  the  Forest 
that  is  our  native  land.  My  Violet,  I will  break  with  Mabel  to- 
morrow. She  and  I w^ere  never  made  for  one  another.  You 
and  I were.  Yes,  love,  yes:  we  have  grown  up  together  side  by 
side,  like  the  primroses  and  violets  in  the  woods.  It  is  my 
second  nature  to  love  you.  Why  should  we  be  parted?  Why 
should  I go  on  acting  a dismal  farce,  pretending  love  to  Mabel, 
pretending  a friendship  to  you — ahke  false  to  both?  There  is 
no  reason,  Violet,  none — except ” 

“ Except  your  promise  to  your  dying  mother,”  said  Violet, 
escaping  from  his  arm,  and  looking  at  him  steadily,  bravely, 
through  the  difu  light.  “ You  shall  not  break  that  for  my  sake 
— you  ought  not,  were  I ten  times  a better  woman  than  I am.  No, 
Rorie,  you  are  to  do  your  duty  and  keep  your  word.  You  are  to 
marry  Lady  Mabel,  and  be  happy  ever  after,  like  the  prince  in 
a fairy  tale.  Depend  upon  it,  happiness  always  comes  in  the  long 
run  to  the  man  who  does  his  duty.” 

“ I don’t  believe  it,”  cried  Roderick,  passionately;  “I  have 
seen  men  who  have  done  right  ail  through  life — men  who  have 
sacrificed  feeling  to  honor,  and  been  miserable.  Why  should  I 
imitate  them  ? I love  you.  I loved  you  always;  but  my  mother 
worried  and  teased  me,  vaunting  Mabel’s  perfections,  trying  to 
lessen  you  in  my  esteem.  And  then,  when  she  w^as  dying:,  and 
it  seemed  a hard  thing  to  oppose  her  wishes  or  to  refuse  her  any- 
thing, were  it  even  the  happiness  of  my  life,  I was  weak,  and  let 
myself  be  persuaded,  and  sold  myself  into  bondage.  But  it  is 
not  too  late,  Violet.  I will  write  Mabel  an  honest  letter  to-mor- 
row, and  tell  her  the  truth  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.” 

“You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,”  cried  Violet,  resolutely. 
“ What,  do  you  think  I have  no  pride,  no  sense  of  honor?  Do 
you  think  I would  let  it  be  said  of  me  that  I,  knowing  you  to  be 
engaged  to  your  cousin,  set  myself  to  lure  you  away  from  her; 
that  we  rode  together,  and  were  seen  together,  happy  in  each 
other’s  company,  and  as  careless  of  slander  as  if  we  had  been 
brother  and  sister;  and  that  the  end  of  all  was  that  you  broke 


VIXEN.  235 

be  worthy  of  the  worst  word  ray  mother’s  husband  could  say  of 
me.” 

“What  does  it  matter  what  people  say — your  mother’s  hus- 
band above  all  ? Malice  can  always  find  something  evil  to  say 
of  us,  let  us  shape  our  lives  how  we  may.  What  really  matters 
is  that  we  should  be  happy;  and  I can  be  happy  with  no  one  but 
you,  Violet.  I know  that  now,  I will  never  marry  Mabel 
Ashbourne.” 

“ And  you  will  never  marry  me,”  answered  Vixen,  giving 
Arion  a light  touch  of  her  whip,  which  sent  him  fiying  along 
the  shadowy  ride. 

Blue  Peter  followed  as  swiftly.  Rorie  was  by  Violet’s  side 
again  in  a minute,  with  his  hand  grasping  hers. 

“You  mean  that  you  don’t  love  me?”  he  exclaimed  angrily. 
“ Why  could  you  not  have  said  so  at  the  first;  why  have  you  let 
me  live  in  a fool’s  paradise  ?” 

“The  paradise  was  of  your  own  making,”  she  answered.  “ I 
love  you  a little  for  the  past,  because  my  father  Ihved  you — be- 
cause you  are  all  that  remains  to  me  of  my  happy  childhood. 
Yes,  if  it  were  not  for  you  I might  look  back  and  think  those 
dear  old  days  were  only  a dream.  But  I hear  your  voice,  I look 
at  you,  and  know’  that  you  are  real,  and  that  I once  was  very 
happy.  Yes,  Rorie,  I do  love  you — love  you — yes,  with  all  my 
heart,  dearer,  better  than  I have  ever  loved  any  one  upon  this 
earth  since  my  father  w’as  laid  in  the  ground.  Yes,  dear.” 
Their  horses  were  w’alking  slowly  now,  and  her  hand  was  locked 
in  his  as  they  rode  side  by  side.  “Yes,  dear,  I love  you  too  well, 
and  you  and  I must-part.  I had  schooled  myself  to  believe  that 
I ioved  you  only  as  I might  have  loved  a brother;  that  you  could 
be  Lady  Mabel’s  husband  and  my  true  friend.  But  that  was  a 
delusion — that  can  never  be.  You  and  I must  part,  Rorie.  This 
night  ride  in  the  forest  must  be  our  last.  Never  any  more,  by 
sun  or  moon,  must  you  and  I ride  together.  It  is  all  over,  Rorie, 
the  old  childish  friendship.  I mean  to  do  my  duty,  and  you 
must  do  yours.” 

“ I will  never  marry  a woman  I do  not  love.” 

“ You  w’ill  keep  your  promise  to  your  mother:  you  will  act  as 
a man  of  honor  should.  Think,  Rorie,  wdiat  a shameful  thing  it 
would  be  to  do,  to  break  off  an  engagement  which  has  been  so 
long  publicly  known,  to  wound  and  grieve  your  good  aunt  and 
uncle.” 

“ They  have  been  very  kind  to  me,”  sighed  Rorie.  “ It  would 
hurt  me  to  give  them  pain.” 

His  conscience  told  him  she  was  right,  but  he  was  angry  with 
her  for  being  so  much  wiser  than  himself. 

Then,  in  a moment,  love — that  had  slumbered  long,  idly  happy 
in  the  company  of  the  beloved,  and  had  suddenly  awakened  to 
know  that  this  summer-day  id lesse  meant  a passion  stronger 
than  death — love  got  the  better  of  conscience,  and  he  cried, 
vehemently: 

“ What  need  I care  for  the  duke  and  duchess  ? They  can  have 
their  choice  of  husbands  for  their  daughter;  an  heiress  like  Mabel 
has  only  to  smile,  and  a man  is  at  her  feet.  Why  should  I sacrL 


226 


VIXEN. 


fice  myself,  love,  truth,  all  that  makes  life  worth  having  ? Do 
you  think  I would  doit  for  the  sake  of  Ashbourne,  and  the  honor 
of  being  a duke’s  son-in-law  ?” 

“ No,  Rorie,  but  for  the  sake  of  your  promise.  And  now  look, 
there  is  Lyndhurst  steeple  above  the  woods.  I am  near  home, 
and  we  must  say  good -night.” 

“ Not  till  you  are  at  your  own  gate.” 

No  one  must  see  you.  I want  to  ride  in  quietly  by  the  stables. 
Don’t  think  I am  ashamed  of  my  errand  to-night.  lam  not; 
but  I want  to  save  my  mother  trouble,  and  if  Captain  Carmichael 
and  I were  to  discuss  the  matter,  there  would  be  a disturbance.” 

Roderick  Vawdrey  seized  Arion  by  the  bridle. 

‘ ‘ I shall  not  let  you  go  so  easily,”  he  said,  resolutely.  “ Vixen, 
I have  loved  you  ever  since  I can  remember  you.  Will  you  b© 
my  wife  ?” 

“No.” 

“ Why  did  you  say  that  you  loved  me  ? 

“Because  I cannot  tell  a lie.  Yes,  I love  you,  Rorie;  but  I 
love  your  honor  and  my  own  better  than  the  chance  of  a happi- 
ness that  might  fade  and  wither  before  we  could  grasp  it.  I 
know  that  your  mother  had  a very  poor  opinion  of  me  while  she 
was  alive:  I should  like  her  to  know,  if  the  dead  know  anything, 
that  she  was  mistaken,  and  that  I am  not  quite  unworthy  of  her 
respect.  You  will  marry  Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne,  Rorie;  and 
ten  years  hence,  w’len  we  are  sober,  middle-aged  people,  w^e  shall 
be  firm  friends  once  again,  and  you  will  thank  and  praise  me 
for  having  counseled  you  to  cleave  to  the  right.  Let  go  the 
bridle,  Rorie;  there’s  no  time  to  lose.  There’s  a glorious  gallop 
from  Queen’s  Bower  to  the  Christchurch  Road.” 

It  was  a long  grassy  ride,  safe  only  for  those  who  knew  the 
country  well,  for  it  was  bordered  on  "each  side  by  treacherous 
bogs.  Violet  knew  every  inch  of  the  way.  Arion  scented  his 
stable  afar  off,  and  w^ent  like  the  wind;  Blue  Peter  stretched  his 
muscular  limbs  in  pursuit.  It  was  a wild  ride  along  the  grassy 
track,  beside  w^atery  marshes  and  reedy  pools  that  gleamed  in 
the  dim  light  of  a new  moon.  The  distant  woods  showed  black 
against  the  sky.  There  was  no  light  to  mark  a human  habita- 
tion within  ken.  There  was  nothing  but  night  and  loneliness, 
and  tlie  solemn  beauty  of  an  unpeopled  waste.  A forest  pony 
stood  here  and  there— pastern-deep  in  the  sedges — and  gazed  at 
those  two  wild  riders,  grave  and  gay,  like  a ghost.  A silvery 
snake  glided  across  the  track;  a water-rat  plunged,  with  a heavy 
splash,  into  a black  pool  as  the  horses  galloped  by.  It  was  a 
glorious  ride.  Miserable  as  both  riders  were,  they  could  not  but 
enjoy  that  wdld  rush  through  the  sweet  soft  air.  under  the  silent 
stars. 

Vixen  gave  a long  sigh  presently,  whsn  they  pulled  up  their 
horses  on  the  hard  road. 

“ I think  I am  ‘ fey  ’ now,”  she  said.  I wonder  what  is  going 
to  happen  to  me?” 

“ Whatever  misfortunes  come  to  you  henceforth  will  be  your 
own  fault,”  protested  Rorie,  savagely,  “You  won’t  be  happy, 
or  make  me  sOo” 


VIXEN. 


221 


“ Don’t  be  angry  with  me,  Eorie,”  she  answered,  quite 
meekly.  “I  would  rather  be  miserable  in  my  own  way  than 
happy  in  yours.” 

Arion,  having  galloped  for  his  own  pleasure,  would  now  have 
liked  to  crawl.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  the  effects  of  unusual 
toil,  and  hung  his  head  despondently;  but  Vixen  urged  him  into 
a sharp  trot,  feeling  that  matters  were  growing  desperate. 

Ten  "minutes  later  they  were  at  the  lodge  leading  to  the 
stables.  The  gate  was  locked,  the  cottage  wrapped  in  dark- 
ness. 

“I  must  go  in  by  the  carriage  drive,”  said  Vixen.  “It's 
rather  a bore,  as  I am  pretty  sure  to  meet  Captain  Carmichael. 
But  it  can’t  be  helped.” 

“ Let  me  go  in  with  you.” 

“No,  Eorie;  that  would  do  no  good.  If  he  insulted  me  be- 
fore you,  his  insolence  would  pain  me.” 

“And  I believe  I should  pain  him,”  said  Eorie.  “I  should 
give  him  the  sweetest  horsewhipping  he  ever  had  in  his  life.” 

“ That  is  to  say,  you  would  bring  disgrace  upon  me,  and  make 
my  mother  miserable.  That’s  a man’s  idea  of  kindness.  No, 
Eorie,  we  part  here.  Good-night,  and — good-bye.” 

“ Fiddlesticks!”  cried  Eorie.  “ I shall  wait  for  you  all  to-mor- 
row morning  at  the  kennels.” 

Vixen  had  ridden  past  the  open  gate.  The  lodge-keeper  stood 
at  his  door  waiting  for  her.  Eoderick  respected  her  wishes,  and 
stayed  outside. 

“ Good-night,”  she  cried  again,  looking  back  at  him;  “Bates 
shall  come  to  you  to-morrow  morning.” 

The  hall  door  was  wide  open,  and  Captain  Carmichael  stood  on 
the  threshold,  waiting  for  his  step-daughter.  One  of  the  under- 
lings from  the  stable  was  ready  to  take  her  horse.  She  dis- 
mounted unaided,  flung  the  reins  to  the  groom,  and  walked  up 
to  the  captain  with  her  firmest  step.  When  she  was  in  the  hall 
he  shut  the  door,  and  bolted  and  locked  it  with  a somewhat 
ostentatious  care.  She  seemed  to  breathe  less  freely  when  that 
great  door  had  shut  out  the  cool  night.  She  felt  as  if  she  were 
in  a jail. 

“ I should  like  half  a dozen  words  with  you  in  the  drawing- 
Iroom  before  you  go  up-stairs,”  Captain  Carmichael  said,  stiffly. 

“A  hundred,  if  you  choose,”  answered  Vixen,  with  supreme 
coolness. 

She  was  utterly  fearless.  What  risks  or  hazards  had  life  that 
she  need  dread?  She  hoped  nothing — feared  nothing.  She  had 
just  made  the  greatest  sacrifice  that  fate  could  require  of  her; 
she  had  rejected  the  man  she  fondly  loved.  What  were  the 
slings  and  arrows  of  her  step-father’s  petty  malice  compared 
with  such  a wrench  as  that  ? 

She  followed  Captain  Carmichael  to  the  drawing-room.  Here 
there  was  more  air;  one  long  window  was  open,  and  the  lace 
curtains  were  faintly  stirred  by  the  night  winds.  A large  mod- 
erator lamp  burned  upon  Mrs.  Carmichael’s  favorite  table — her 
books  and  basket  of  crewels  were  there,  but  the  lady  of  the 
house  had  retired. 


22S 


VIXEN. 


“ My  mothpr  has  gone  to  bed,  I suppose?’^  inquired  Vixen. 

‘‘  She  has  gone  to  ner  room,  but  I fear  she  is  too  much  agitated 
to  get  any  rest.  I would  not  allow  her  to  wait  here  any  longer 
for  you.” 

“ Is  it  so  very  late  ?”  asked  Vixen,  with  the  most  innocent  air. 

Her  heart  was  beating  violently,  and  her  temper  was  not  at 
its  best.  ^ She  stood  looking  at  the  captain,  with  a mischievous 
sparkle  in  her  eyes,  and  her  whip  tightly  clinched. 

She  was  thinking  of  that  speech  of  Eorie's  about  the  “ sweet- 
est horsewhipping.”  She  wondered  whether  Captain  Car- 
michael had  ever  been  horsewhipped;  whether  that  kind  of 
chastisement  was  numbered  in  the  sum  of  his  experiences.  She 
opined  not.  The  captain  was  too  astute  a man  to  bring  himself 
in  the  way  of  such  punishment.  He  would  do  things  that 
deserved  horsewhipping,  and  get  off  scot-free. 

“It  is  a quarter  past  eleven.  I don’t  know  whether  you 
think  that  a respectable  hour  for  a young  lady s evening  ride. 
May  I ask  the  motive  of  this  nocturnal  expedition  ?” 

“ Certainly.  You  deprived  Bates  of  a comfortable  place — he 
has  only  been  in  the  situation  forty  years — and  I went  to  get  him 
another.  I am  happy  to  say  that  I succeeded.” 

“ And  pray  who  is  the  chivalrous  employer  willing  to  receive 
my  dismissed  servant  without  a character?” 

“ A very  old  friend  of  my  father’s — Mr.  Vawdrey.” 

“I  thought  as  much,”  retorted  the  captain.  “ And  it  is  to  Mr, 
Vawdrey  you  liave  been,  late  at  night,  unattended  ?” 

“It  is  your  fault  that  I went  unattended.  You  have  taken 
upon  yourself  to  dismiss  my  groom — the  man  who  broke  my  first 
pony,  the  man  my  father  gave  me  for  an  attendant  and  protect- 
or, just  as  he  gave  me  my  horse.  You  will  take  upon  yourself 
to  sell  my  horse  next,  I suppose  ?” 

“ I shall  take  a great  deal  more  upon  myself  before  you  and  I 
have  done  with  each  other,  Miss  Tempest,”  answered  tlie  captain, 
pale  with  passion. 

Never  had  Vixen  seen  him  so  strongly  moved.  The  purple 
veins  stood  out  darkly  upon  his  pale  forehead,  his  eyes  had  a 
haggard  look;  he  was" like  a man  consumed  inwardly  by  some 
evil  passion  that  was  stronger  than  himself — like  a man  pos- 
sessed by  devils.  Vixen  looked  at  him  with  wonder.  They 
stood  facing  each  other,  with  the  lamp-lit  table  between  them, 
the  light  shining  on  both  their  faces. 

“Why  do  you  look  at  me  with  that  provoking  smile?”  he 
asked.  “ Do  you  want  to  exasperate  me  ? You  must  know  that 
I hate  you.” 

“I  do,”  answered  Vixen;  “but  God  only  knows  why  you 
should  do  so.” 

“ Do  vou  know  no  reason?” 

“ No.’"’ 

“Can’t  you  guess  one?” 

“No;  unless  it  is  because  my  father’s  fortune  will  belong  to 
me  by  and  by,  if  I live  to  be  five-and-twenty,  and  your  position 
here  will  be  lessened.” 

“ That  is  not  the  reason;  no,  I am  not  so  base  as  that.  That  is 


VIXEN. 


229 


not  why  I hate  you,  Violet.  If  you  had  been  some  dumpy, 
homely  country  lass,  with  thick  features  and  a clumsy  figure, 
you  and  I might  have  got  on  decently  enough.  I would  have 
made  3^ou  obey  me;  but  I would  have  been  kind  to  you.  But 
you  are  something  very  different.  You  are  the  girl  I would  have 
periled  my  soul  to  win — the  girl  who  rejected  me  with  careless 
scorn.  Have  you  forgotten  that  night  in  the  Pavilion  Garden  at 
Brighton?  I have  not.  I never  look  up  at  the  stars  without 
remem berins:  it,  and  I can  never  forgive  you  while  that  memory 
lives  in  my  mind.  If  you  had  been  my  wife,  Violet,  I would 
have  been  your  slave.  You  forced  me  to  make  myself  your  step- 
father, and  I will  be  master  instead  of  slave.  I will  make  your 
life  bitter  to  you  if  you  thwart  me.  I will  put  a stop  to  your  run- 
ning after  another  woman’s  sweetheart.  I will  come  between 
you  and  your  lover,  Eoderick  Vawdrey.  Your  secret  meetings, 
your  clandestine  love-making,  shall  be  stopped.  Such  conduct 
as  you  have  been  carrying  on  of  late  is  a shame  and  disgrace  to 
your  sex.” 

‘‘How  dare  you  say  that?”  cried  Vixen,  beside  herself  with 
anger. 

She  grasped  the  lamp  with  both  her  hands,  as  if  she  would 
have  hurled  it  at  her  foe.  It  was  a large  moon-shaped  globe 
upon  a bronze  pedestal — a fearful  thing  to  fling  at  one’s  adver- 
sary. A great  wave  of  blood  surged  up  into  the  girl’s  brain. 
What  she  was  going  to  do  sIjo  knew  not;  but  her  whole  being 
was  convulsed  by  the  passion  of  that  moment.  The  room  reeled 
before  her  eyes,  the  heavy  pedestal  swayed  in  her  hands,  and 
then  she  saw  the  big  moon-like  globe  roll  on  to  the  carpet,  and 
after  it,  and  darting  beyond  it,  a stream  of  liquid  fire  that  ran, 
and  ran  quicker  than  thought,  toward  the  open  wiiidovv^. 

Before  she  could  speak  or  move  the  flame  had  run  up  the  lace 
curtain  like  a living  thing,  swift  as  the  flight  of  a bird  or  the 
gliding  motion  of  a lizard.  The  wide  casement  was  wreathed 
with  light.  They  two-— Vixen  and  her  foe — seemed  to  be  stand- 
ing in  an  atmospl  .ere  of  fire. 

Captain  Carmichael  was  confounded  by  the  suddenness  of  the 
catastrophe.  While  he  stood  dumb,  bewildered,  Vixen  sprang 
through  th?  narrow  space  between  the  flaming  curtains,  as  if 
she  had  plunged  into  a gulf  of  fire.  He  beard  her  strong  clear 
voice  calling  to  the  stable-men  and  gardeners.  It  rang  like  a 
clarion  in  the  still  summer  niglit. 

There  was  not  a moment  lost.  The  stable-men  rushed  with 
pails  of  water,  and  directly  after  them  the  Scotch  gardener  with 
his  garden -engine,  which  held  several  gallons.  His  hose  did 
some  damage  to  the  drawing-room  carpet  and  upholstery,  but 
the  strong  jet  of  water  speedily  quenched  the  flames.  In  ten 
minutes  the  window  stood  blank  and  black  and  bare,  with  Vixeq 
standing  on  the  lawn  outside,  contemplating  tlie  damage  shq 
had  done. 

Mrs.  Carmichael  rushed  in  at  the  drawing-rooza  dcfor,  ghost- 
like, in  her  \7hiie  peignoir^  p*ile  and  scared. 

Oh,  Conrad,  what  Jias  happened  ?”  eho  cried,  distractedly 


230 


VIXEN. 


just  able  to  distinguish  her  husband’s  figure  standing  in  the 
midst  of  the  disordered  room. 

“ Your  beautiful  daughter  has  been  trying  to  set  the  house  on 
fire,”  he  answered.  “ That  is  all.” 


CHAPTER  XXXn. 

THAT  MUST  END  AT  ONCE.” 

A QUARTER  of  an  hour  later,  when  all  the  confusion  was  over, 
Violet  was  kneelmg  by  her  mother’s  chair,  trying  to  restore 
tranquillity  to  Mrs.  Carmichael’s  fluttered  spirits.  Mother  and 
daughter  were  alone  together  in  the  elder  lady’s  dressing-room, 
the  disconsolate  Pamela  sitting,  like  Niobe,  amidst  her  scattered 
fineries,  her  pomade  pots  and  powder  boxes,  fan  cases  and 
jewel  caskets,  and  all  the  arsenal  of  waning  beauty. 

“Dear  mother,”  pleaded  Violet,  with  unusual  gentleness, 
“ pray  don’t  give  w^ay  to  this  unnecessary  grief.  You  cannot 
surely  believe  that  I tried  to  set  this  dear  old  home  on  fire  : that 
I could  be  so  foolish— granting  even  that  I were  wicked  enough 
to  do  it— as  to  destroy  a place  I love,  the  house  in  w’hich  my 
father  was  borni  You  can’t  believe  such  a thing,  mother.” 

“I  know  that  you  are  making  my  life  miserable,”  sobbed 
Mrs.  Carmichael,  feebly  dabbing  her  forehead  with  a flimsy 
Valenciennes  bordered  handkerchief,  steeped  in  eau-de-cologne, 
“ and  I am  sure  Courad  would  not  tell  a falsehood.” 

“Perhaps  not,”  «^aid  Vixen,  with  a gloomy  look.  “We  will 
take  it  for  granted  that  he  is  perfection,  and  could  not  do 
wrong.  But  in  this  case  he  is  mistaken.  I felt  quite  capable  of 
killing  him,  but  not  of  setting  fire  to  this  house.” 

“Oh,”  wailed  Pamela,  distractedly,  “this  is  too  dreadful! 
To  think  that  I should  have  a daughter  who  confesses  herself  at 
heart  a murderess.” 

“ Unhappily  it  is  true,  mother,”  said  Vixen  moodily  contrite. 
“For  just  that  one  moment  of  my  life  I felt  a murderous  im- 
pulse, and  from  the  impulse  to  the  execution  is  a very  short 
step.  I don’t  feel  myself  very  superior  to  the  people  who  are 
hanged  at  Newgate,  I assure  you.” 

“What  is  to  become  of  me?”  inquired  Mrs.  Carmichael,  in 
abject  lamentation.  “It  is  too  hard  that  my  own  daughter 
should  be  a source  of  misery  in  my  married  life,  that  she  should 
harden  her  heart  against  the  best  of  step-fathers,  and  should 
actually  try  to  bring  discord  between  me  and  the  husband  I 
love.  I don’t  know  what  I have  done  that  I should  be  so 
miserable.” 

“ pear  mother,  only  be  calm,  and  listen  to  me,”  urged  Violet, 
who  was  very  calm  herself,  with  a coldly  resolute  air  which 
presently  obtained  ascendency  over  her  agitated  parent.  “ If 
I have  been  the  source  of  misery,  that  misery  cannot  too 
soon  come  to  an  end.  I have  long  felt  that  I have  no  place  in 
this  house — that  I am  one  too  many  in  om*  small  family.  I feel 
now — yes,  Ciamma,  I feel  and  know  that  the  same  roof  can- 
not cover  me  and  Captain  Carmichael.  He  and  I can  no  longer 


VIXEN  231 

sit  at  the  same  board  or  live  in  the  same  house.  That  must  end 
at  once.” 

“ What  complaint  can  you  have  to  make  against  him,  Violet?” 
cried  her  mother,  hysterically,  and  with  a good  deal  more  dab- 
bing of  the  perfumed  handkerchief  upon  her  fevered  brow. 
“I  am  sure  no  father  could  be  kinder  than  Conrad  would  be  to 
you  if  you  would  only  let  him.  But  you  have  set  yourself 
against  him  from  the  very  first.  It  seems  as  if  you  grudged  me 
my  happiness  ” 

It  shall  seem  so  no  longer,  mamma.  I will  cease  to  be  a 
thorn  in  your  garland  of  roses,”  replied  Vixen,  with  exceeding 
bitterness.  “I  will  leave  the  Abbey  House  directly  any  other 
home  can  be  found  for  me.  If  dear  old  M’Croke  would  take  care 
of  me,  I should  like  to  go  abroad,  somewliere  very  far,  to  some 
strange  place,  where  all  things  would  be  different  and  new  to 
me,”  continued  Vixen,  unconsciously  betraying  that  aching  de- 
sire for  forgetfulness  natural  to  a wounded  heart.  “ Sweden  or 
Norway,  for  instance.  I think  I should  like  to  spend  a year  in 
one  of  those  cold,  strange  lands,  with  good  old  M’Croke  for  my 
companion.  There  would  be  nothing  to  remind  me  of  the  Forest,” 
she  concluded  with  a stifled  sob. 

“ My  dear  Violet,  you  have  such  wild  ideas,”  exclaimed  her 
mother,  with  an  injured  air.  “ It  is  just  as  Conrad  says.  You 
have  no  notion  of  the  proprieties.  Sweden  or  Norway,  indeed  I 
Was  there  ever  anything  so  outlandish?  What  would  people 
say,  I wonder  ?” 

“ Ah  I what,  indeed,  mamma.  Perhaps  they  might  for  once 
,6ay  what  is  true — that  I could  not  get  on  with  Captain  Carmi- 
chael, and  so  was  forced  to  find  another  home.” 

“And  what  a reproach  that  would  be  to  me  !”  cried  her 
mother.  “ You  are  so  selfish,  Violet;  you  think  of  no  one  but 
yourself.” 

“ Perhaps  that  is  because  nobody  else  thinks  of  me,  mother.” 

“How  can  you  say  such  abominable  things,  Violet?  Am  I 
not  thinking  of  you  this  moment?  I am  sure  I have  thought 
of  you  this  evening  until  my  head  aches.  You  force  one  to 
think  about  you  when  you  behave  in  such  a disgraceful  manner.” 

“What  have  I done  that  is  disgraceful,  mamma?  I have 
ridden  out  at  an  unusual  hour  to  get  a place  for  an  old  servant — 
a man  who  has  served  in  this  house  faithfully  for  more  than  forty 
years.  That  is  what  I have  done  and  I should  not  be  ashamed 
if  it  were  known  to  everybody  * in  Hampshire.  Yes,  even  to 
Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne,  that  pattern  of  chilly  propriety.  The 
disgrace  is  Captain  Carmichael’s.  It  is  he  Jwho  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  turning  off  my  father's  andgrand  father’s  old  serv- 
ant. What  you  have  to  be  sorry  for  mamma,  is  that  you  have 
married  a man  capable  of  such  an  action.”  ^ 

“ How  dare  you  speak  against  liiml”  cried  the  offended  wife. 
“ He  has  done  everything  for  the  best.  It  was  your  own  foolish 
conduct  that  obliged  him  to  dismiss  Bates.  To  think  that  a 
daughter  of  mine  should  have  so  little  self-respect  as  to  go 
roaming  about  the  forest  with  an  engaged  man  I It  is  too 
dreadfuL” 


232 


VIXEN. 


‘‘You  need  not  make  yourself  Tinhappy  about  the  engaged 
man,  mamma,”  said  Vixen,  scornfully.  “He  is  out  of  danger. 
Rorie  and  I need  never  see  each  other  again.  I should  be  more 
than  content  that  it  should  be  so.  Only  arrange  with  Captain 
Carmichael  for  some  allo\vance  to  bo  made  me — just  money 
enough  to  enable  me  to  live  abroad  with  dear  old  M’Croke. 
I want  no  gayeties,  I want  no  fine  dresses,  The  simplest  mode 
of  life,  in  a strange  country,  will  suit  me  best.” 

“ I can’t  bear  the  idea  of  your  going  away,”  whimpered  Mrs. 
Carmichael.  “People  talk  so.  A step-father’s  is  such  a deli- 
cate position.  People  are  sure  to  say  cruel  things  about  Conrad. 
And  it  is  all  your  fault,  Violet.  We  might  have  lived  so  happily 
together  if  you  had  liked.” 

“We  might,  perhaps,  mamma;  but  I don’t  think  any  of  us 
knew  the  way.  Captain  Carmichael  could  hardly  expect  that 
to  sell  my  father’s  favorite  horse  was  the  shortest  way  to  my 
liking;  and  that’s  how  he  began  his  reign  in  this  house.  Don’t 
let  us  talk  any  more,  my  dear  mother.  Words  are  useless  to 
heal  such  wounds  as  ours.  Good-night.  Sleep  well,  and  forget 
all  about  me.  To-morrow  you  and  the  captain  can  give  me  my 
liberty.” 

“I "thought  you  were  so  fond  of  the  Abbey  House,”  moaned 
her  mother. 

“ So  I was  when  it  was  home.  It  has  ceased  to  bo  my  home, 
and  I shall  be  glad  to  leave  it.” 

“Oh,  Violet,  you  have  a hard  heart.’* 

“ Good-night,  mamma.” 

She  was  gone,  leaving  Mrs.  Carmichael  feebly  moaning,  and 
vaguely  dab^bing  her  forehead,  feeling  that  the  Fates  had  not  been 
kind  to  her.  Life  seemed  to  have  gone  all  askew.  It  was  as  if 
Theodore  liad  taken  to  sending  home  misfits.  Nothing  was 
smooth  or  pleasant  in  an  existence  whose  halcyon  calm  had 
cnce  been  undisturbed  by  so  much  as  a crumpled  rose  leaf. 

Vixen  went  straight  to  her  room,  accompanied  by  Argus, who 
had  followed  her  from  the  hall  to  the  door  of  her  mother’s  dress- 
ing-room, and  had  waited  patiently  for  her  in  the  corridor,  with 
his  head  leaning  against  the  closed  door,  as  if  he  scented  trouble 
within. 

When  girl  and  dog  were  alone  together,  Violet  flung  herself 
on  the  ground,  threw  her  arms  round  the  mastifi’s  thick  neck, 
and  let  her  tears  flow  freely  against  that  faithful  head. 

“ Oh,  Argus,”  she  cried,  piteously,  “yen  are  the  only  friend 
left  me  in  this  wide  world  I” 


CHAPTER  XXXIIl. 

GOING  INTO  EXILE. 

After  a long  sleepless  night  of  tossing  to  and  fro.  Vixen  rose 
with  the  first  stir  of  life  in  the  old  house,  and  made  herself  read  y 
to  face  the  bleak  hard  world.  Her  meditations  of  the  night  had 
brought  no  new  light  to  her  mind.  It  was  very  clear  to  her  that 
she  must  go  away — as  far  as  possible — from  her  old  home.  Her 
banishment  was  necessary  for  everybody’s  sake.  For  the  sake 


VIXEN. 


233 


of  Rorie,  who  must  behave  like  a man  of  honor,  and  keep  his 
engagement  with  Lady  Mabel,  and  shut  his  old  playfellow  out 
of  his  heart;  for  the  sake  of  Mrs.  Carmichael,  who  could  never 
be  happy  while  there  was  discord  in  her  home;  and  last  of  all  for 
Violet  herself,  who  felt  that  joy  and  peace  had  fled  from  the 
Abbey  House  forever,  and  that  it  would  be  better  to  be  any- 
where, in  the  coldest,  strangest  region  of  this  wide  earth,  verily 
friendless  and  alone  among  strange  faces,  than  here  among 
friends  who  were  but  friends  in  name,  and  among  scenes  that 
were  haunted  with  the  ghosts  of  dead  joys. 

She  went  round  the  gardens  and  shrubberies  in  the  early 
morning,  looking  sadly  at  everything,  as  if  she  were  bidding  the 
trees  and  flowers  a long  farewell.  The  rhododendron  thickets 
were  shining  with  dew,  the  grassy  tracks  in  that  wilderness  of 
vendure  were  wet  and  cold  under  Vixen’s  feet.  She  wandered 
in  an  out  among  the  groups  of  wild  growing  shrubs,  rising  one 
above  another  to  the  height  of  forest  trees,  and  then  she  went 
out  by  the  old  five-barred  gate  which  Titmouse  used  to  jump  so 
merrily,  and  rambled  in  the  plantation  till  the  sun  was  high,  and 
the  pines  began  to  breathe  forth  their  incense  as  the  day-god 
warmed  them  into  life. 

It  was  half  past  eight.  Nine  was  the  hour  for  breakfast — a 
meal  at  which,  during  the  squire’s  time,  the  fragile  Pamela  had 
rarely  appeared,  but  which,  under  the  present  regime,  she  gener- 
ally graced  with  her  presence.  Captain  Carmichael  was  an  early 
riser,  and  was  not  sparing  in  his  contempt  for  sluggish  habits. 

Vixen  had  made  up  her  mind  never  again  to  sit  at  meat  with 
her  step- father;  so  she  went  straight  to  her  own  den,  and  told 
Phoebe  to  bring  her  a cup  of  tea. 

“ 1 don’t  want  anything  else,”  she  said,  wearily,  when  the 
girl  suggested  a more  substantial  breakfast.  “ I should  like  to 
see  mamma  presently.  Do  you  know  if  she  has  gone  downi  V” 

“No,  miss.  Mrs.  Carmichael  is  not  very  well  this  morning. 
Pauline  has  taken  her  up  a cup  of  tea.” 

Vixen  sat  idly  by  the  open  window,  sipping  her  tea,  and  ca- 
ressing Argus’s  big  head  with’a  listless  hand,  waiting  for  the  next 
stroke  of  fate.  She  was  sorry  for  her  mother,  but  had  no  wish 
to  see  her.  What  could  they  say  to  each  other — they  whose 
thoughts  and  feelings  were  so  wide  apart  ? Presently  ’ Phoebe 
came  in  with  a little  three-cornered  note  written  in  pencil. 

“ Pauline  asked  me  to  give  you  this  from  your  ma,  miss.” 

The  note  was  brief,  written  in  short  gasps,  with  dashes  be- 
tween them; 

“I  feel  too  crushed  and  ill  to  see  you— I have  told  Conrad 
what  you  wish — he  is  all  goodness — he  will  tell  you  what  we 
have  decided — try  to  be  worthier  of  his  kindess — poor  misguided 
child — ^he  will  see  you  in  his  study,  directly  after  breakfast — 
pray  control  your  unhapiDy  temper.” 

“His  study,  indeed!”  ejaculated  Vixen,  tearing  up  the  little 
note  and  scattering  its  perfumed  fragments  on  the  breeze;  “ my 
father’s  room,  which  he  has  usurped.  I think  I hate  him  just  a 
little  worse  in  that  room  than  anywhere  else — though  that 


234  VIXEN. 

would  seem  hardly  possible,  when  I hate  him  so  cordially  every- 
where.” 

She  went  to  the  looking-glas^  Cind  surveyed  herself  proudly 
as  she  smoothed  her  shining  hair,  resolved  that  he  should  see  no 
indication  of  trouble  or  contrition  in  her  face.  She  was  very 
pale,  but  her  tears  of  last  night  had  left  no  traces.  There  was  a 
steadiness  in  her  look  that  befitted  an  encounter  with  an  enemy. 
A message  came  from  the  captain  while  she  was  standing  before 
her  glass  tying  a crimson  ribbon  under  the  collar  of  her  white 
morning  dress. 

Would  she  please  to  go  to  Captain  Carmicliael  in  the  study  ? 
She  went  without  an  instant’s  delay,  walked  quietly  into  the 
room,  and  stood  before  him  silently  as  he  sat  at  his  desk  writing. 

‘•Good-morning,”  Miss  Tempest,”  lie  said,  looking  up  at  her 
with  his  blandest  air.  “Sit  down,  if  ycu  please.  I want  to 
have  a chat  with  you.” 

Yixen  seated  herself  in  her  father’s  large  crimson  morocco 
chair.  She  was  looking  round  the  room  absently,  dreamily, 
quite  disregarding  the  captain.  The  dear  old  room  was  full  of 
sadly  sweet  associations.  For  the  moment  she  forgot  the  exist- 
ence of  her  foe.  His  cold  level  tones  recalled  her  thoughts  from 
the  lamented  past  to  the  bitter  present. 

“ Your  mother  informs  me  that  you  wish  to  leave  the  Abbey 
House,”  he  began,  “ and  she  has  empowered  me  to  arrange  a 
suitable  home  for  you  elsewhere.  I entirely  concur  in  your 
opinion  that  your  absence  from  Hampshire  for  the  next  year  or 
so  will  be  advantageous  to  yourself  and  others.  You  and  Mr. 
Yawdrey  have  contrived  to  get  yourselves  unpleasantly  talked 
about  in  the  neighborhood.  Anv  further  scandal  may  possibly 
be  prevented  by  your  departure.” 

“ It  is  not  on  that  account  I wish  to  leave  home,”  said  Yixen, 
proudly.  I am  not  afraid  of  scandal.  If  the  people  hereabouts 
are  so  wicked  that  they  cannot  see  me  riding  by  the  side  of  an 
old  friend  for  two  or  three  days  running  without  thinking  evil 
of  him  and  me,  I am  sorry  for  them,  but  I certainly  should  not 
regulate  my  life  to  please  them.  The  reason  I wish  to  leave  the 
Abbey  House  is  that  I am  miserable  here,  and  have  been  ever 
since  you  entered  it  as  its  master.  We  may  as  well  deal  frankly 
with  each  other  in  this  matter.  You  confessed  last  night  that 
you  hated  me.  I acknowledge  to-day  that  I have  hated  you  ever 
knee  I first  saw  you.  It  was  an  instinct.” 

“We  need  not  discuss  that,”  answered  the  captain,  calmly. 
He  had  let  passion  master  him  last  night,  but  he  had  himself 
well  in  hand  to-day.  She  might  be  as  provoking  as  she  pleased, 
but  she  should  not  provoke  him  to  betray  himself  as  he  had  done 
last  night.  He  detested  himself  for  that  weak  outbreak  of 
passion. 

“ Have  you  arranged  with  my  mother  for  my  leaving  home?** 
inquired  Yixen. 

“Yes,  it  is  all  settled.” 

“ Then  I’ll  write  at  once  to  Miss  M’Croke.  I know  she  will 
leave  the  people  she  is  with  to  travel  with  me.” 

“Miss  M’Croke  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  question.  Tout 


vixEisr. 


235 


roaming  about  the  world  with  a superannuated  governess  would 
be  too  preposterous.  I am  going  to  take  you  to  Jersey  by  this 
evening’s  boat.  I have  an  aunt  living  there  who  lias  a fine  old 
manor-house,  and  who  will  be  happy  to  take  charge  of  you. 
She  is  a maiden  lady,  a woman  of  superior  cultivation,  who  de- 
votes herself  wholly  to  intellectual  pursuits.  Her  refining  in- 
fluence will  be  valuable  to  you.  The  island  is  lovely,  the  climale 
delicious.  You  could  not  be  better  off  than  you  will  beat  Les 
Toureiles.” 

*•  I am  not  going  to  Jersey,  and  I am  not  going  to  your  intel- 
lectual aunt,”  said  Vixen,  resolutely. 

‘ * I beg  your  pardon,  you  are  going  immediately.  Your  mother 
and  I have  settled  the  matter  between  us.  You  have  expressed 
a wish  to  leave  home,  and  you  will  be  pleased  to  go  where  we 
think  proper.  You  had  better  tell  Phoebe  to  pack  your  trunks. 
We  shall  leave  here  at  ten  o’clock  in  the  evening.  The  boat 
starts  from  Southampton  at  midnight.” 

Vixen  felt  herself  conquered.  She  had  stated  her  wish,  and 
it  was  granted ; not  in  the  mode  and  manner  she  had  desired, 
but  perhaps  she  ought  to  be  grateful  for  release  from  a home 
that  had  become  loathsome  to  her,  and  not  take  objection  to  de- 
tails in  the  scheme  of  her  exile.  To  go  away,  quite  away,  and 
immediately,  was  the  grand  point.  To  fly  before  she  saw  Rorie 
again. 

“ Heaven  knows  how  weak  I might  be  if  he  were  to  talk  to 
me  again  as  he  talked  last  night!”  sh«^  said  to  herself.  “ I might 
not  be  able  to  bear  it  a second  time.  Oh,  Rorie,  if  you  knew 
what  it  cost  me  to  counsel  you  wisely,  to  bid  you  do  your  duty, 
when  the  vision  of  a happy  life  with  you  was  smiling  at  me  all 
the  time,  when  the  warm  grasp  of  your  dear  hand  made  my 
heart  thrill  wdth  joy,  what  a heroine  you  would  think  me!  And 
yet  nobody  will  ever  give  me  credit  for  heroism;  and  I shall  be 
remembered  only  as  a self-willed  young  woman,  who  was 
troublesome  to  her  relations,  and  had  to  be  sent  away  from 
home.” 

She  was  thinking  this  while  she  sat  in  her  father’s  chair,  de- 
liberating upon  the  captain’s  last  speech.  She  decided  presently 
to  yield,  and  obey  her  mother  and  step-father.  After  all,  what 
did  it  matter  where  she  w^ent?  That  scheme  of  being  happy  in 
Sweden  with  Miss  M’Croke  was  but  an  idle  fancy.  In  the  depths 
of  her  inner  consciousness  Violet  Tempest  knew  that  she  could 
be  happy  nowhere  away  from  Rorie  and  the  Forest.  What  did 
it  matter,  then,  whether  she  went  to  Jersey  or  Kamtchatka,  the 
sandy  desert  of  Gobi  or  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon  ? In  either 
case  exile  meant  moral  death,  the  complete  renunciation  of  all 
that  had  been  sweet  and  precious  in  her  uneventful  young  life — 
the  shadowy  beech  groves;  the  wandering  streams;  the  heathery 
upland  plains;  the  deep  ferny  hollows,  where  the  footsteps  of 
humanity  were  almost  unknown;  the  cluster  of  tall  trees  on  the 
hill-tops,  where  the  herons  came  sailing  home  from  their  flight 
across  Southampton  Water;  her  childhood’s  companion;  her 
horse;  her  old  servants.  Banishment  meant  a long  farewell  to 
all  these. 


S36 


VIXEN. 


I suppose  I may  take  my  dog  with  me?”  she  asked,  after  a 
long  pause,  during  which  she  had  wavered  between  submission 
and  revolt,  “ and  my  maid?” 

“1  see  no  objection  to  your  taking  your  dog,  though  I doubt 
whether  my  aunt  will  care  to  have  a dog  of  that  size  prowling 
about  her  house.  He  can  have  a kennel  somewhere,  I dare  say. 
You  must  learn  to  do  without  a maid.  Feminine  helplessness  is 
going  out  of  fashion,  and  one  would  expect  an  Amazon  like  you 
to  be  independent  of  lady’s-maids  and  milliners.” 

“ Why  don’t  you  state  the  case  in  plain  English  ?”  cried  Vixen, 
scornfully.  “ If  I took  Phoebe  with  me,  she  would  cost  money. 
There  would  be  her  wages  and  maintenance  to  be  provided.  If 
I leave  her  behind,  you  can  dismiss  her.  You  have  a fancy  for 
dismissing  old  servants.” 

“Had  you  not  better  see  to  the  packing  of  your  trunks?” 
asked  Captain  Carmichael,  ignoring  this  shaft. 

“ What  is  to  become  of  my  horse  ?” 

“ I think  you  must  resign  yourself  to  leave  him  to  fate  and 
me,”  replied  the  captain,  coolly.  “My  aunt  may  submit  to  the 
infliction  of  your  dog;  but  that  she  should  tolerate  a young  lady’s 
roaming  about  the  island  on  a thoroughbred  horse  would  be 
rather  too  much  to  expect  from  her  old-fashioned  notions  of 
propriety.” 

“ Besides,  even  Arion  would  cost  something  to  keep,”  retorted 
Vixen,  “ and  strict  economy  is  the  rule  of  your  life.  If  you  sell 
him — and,  of  course,  you  will  do  so — ^please  let  Lord  Mallow 
have  the  refusal  of  him.  I think  he  would  buy  him  and  treat 
him  kindly  for  my  sake.” 

“ Wouldn’t  you  rather  Mr.  Vawdrey  had  him?” 

“Yes,  if  I were  free  to  give  him  away;  but  I suppose  you 
would  deny  my  right  of  property  even  in  the  horse  my  father 
gave  me.” 

“Well,  as  the  horse  was  not  specified  in  your  father’s  will, 
and  as  all  his  horses  and  carnages  were  left  to  your  mother,  I 
think  there  cannot  be  any  doubc  that  Arion  is  my  wife’s 
property.” 

“ Why  not  say  your  property  ? Why  give  unnatural  prom- 
inence to  a cipher  ? Do  you  think  I hold  my  poor  mother  to 
blame  for  anv  wrong  that  is  done  to  me  or  to  others  in  this 
house?  No,  Captain  Carmichael,  I have  no  resentment  against 
my  mother.  She  is  a blameless  nullity,  dressed  in  the  latest 
fashion.” 

“ Go  and  pack  your  boxes!”  cried  the  captain,  angrily.  “ Do 
you  want  to  raise  the  devil  that  was  raised  last  night?  Do  you 
want  another  conflagration  ? It  might  be  a worse  one  this  time. 
I have  had  a night  of  fever  and  unrest.” 

“ Am  I to  blame  for  tliat  ?” 

“Yes,  you  beautiful  fury.  It  was  your  image  kept  me 
awake.  I sliall  sleep  sounder  when  you  are  out  of  this  house.” 

“ I shall  be  ready  to  start  at  ten  o’clock,”  said  Vixen,  in  a 
business-like  tone  which  curiously  contrasted  this  sudden  gust 
of  passion  on  the  part  of  her  foe,  and  humiliated  him  to  the 


VIXEN.  237 

dust.  He  loathed  himself  for  having  let  her  see  her  power  to 
hurt  him. 

She  left  him,  and  went  straight  up-stairs  to  her  room,  and 
gave  Phoebe  directions  about  the  packing  of  her  portmanteaus, 
with  no  more  outward  semblance  of  emotion  than  she  might 
have  shown  bad  she  been  starting  on  a round  of  pleasant  visits 
under  the  happiest  circumstances.  The  faithful  Phoebe^  began 
to  cry  when  she  heard  that  Miss  Tempest  was  going  away  for 
a long  time,  and  that  she  was  not  to  go  with  her;  and  poor 
Vixen  had  to  console  her  maid  instead  of  brooding  upon  her 
own  griefs. 

“Never  mind,  Phoebe,*’  she  said;  “it  is  as  hard  for  me  to 
lose  you  as  it  is  for  you  to  lose  me.  I shall  never  forget  what  a 
devoted  little  thing  you  have  been,  and  all  the  muddy  habits 
you  have  brushed  without  a murmur.  A few  years  hence  I 
shall  be  my  own  mistress,  and  have  plenty  of  money,  and  then, 
wherever  I may  be,  you  shall  come  to  me.  If  you  are  married, 
you  shall  be  my  housekeeper,  and  your  husband  shall  be 
my  butler,  and  your  children  shall  run  wild  about  the  place, 
and  be  made  as  much  of  as  the  litter  of  young  foxes  Bates 
reared  in  a corner  of  the  stable-yard  when  Mr.  Vawdrey  was  at 
Eton.” 

“Oh,  miss,  I don’t  want  no  husband  nor  no  children;  I only 
want  you  for  my  missus.  And  when  you  come  of  age,  will 
you  live  l^ere,  miss  r” 

“ No,  Phoebe.  The  Abbey  House  will  belong  to  mamma  all 
her  life.  Poor  mammal  may  it  be  long  before  the  dear  old 
house  comes  to  me!  But  when  I am  of  age,  and  my  own  mis- 
tress, I shall  find  a place  somewhere  in  tlie  Forest;  you  may  be 
sure  of  that  Phoebe.” 

Phoebe  dried  her  honest  tears,  and  made  haste  with  the  pack- 
ing, believing  that  Miss  Tempest  was  leaving  borne  for  her  own 
pleasure,  and  that  she,  Phoebe,  was  the  only  victim  of  adverse 
fate. 

The  day  wore  on  quickly,  though  it  was  laden  with  sorrow. 
Vixen  had  a great  deal  to  do  in  her  den:  papers  to  look  over,  old 
letters,  pen-and-ink  sketches,  and  scribblings  of  all  kinds  to  de- 
stroy, books  and  photographs  to  pack.  There  were  certain  things 
she  could  not  leave  behind  her.  Then  there  was  a melancholy 
hour  to  spend  in  the  stable,  feeding,  caressing,  and  weeping  over 
Arion,  who  snorted  his  tenderest  snorts,  and  licked  her  hands 
with  abject  devotion — almost  as  if  he  knew  they  were  going  to 
part,  Vixen  thought. 

Last  of  all  came  the  parting  with  her  mother.  Vixen  had 
postponed  this  with  an  aching  dread  of  a scene,  in  which  she 
might  perchance  lose  her  temper,  and  be  betrayed  into  bitter 
utterances  that  she  would  afterward  repent  with  useless  tears. 
She  had  spoken  the  truth  to  her  step-father  when  she  told  him 
that  she  held  her  mother  blameless;  yet  the  fact  that  she  had  but 
the  smallest  share  in  that  mother’s  heart  was  cruelly  patent  to 
her. 

It  was  nearly  four  o’clock  in  the  afternoon  when  Pauline  came 
to  Violet’s  room  v/ith  a message  from  ^Ii's.  Carmichael.  She  had 


238 


VIXEN. 


been  very  ill  all  the  morning,  Pauline  informed  Miss  Tempest, 
suffering  severely  from  nervous  headache,  and  obliged  to  lie  in 
a darkened  room.  Even  now  she  was  barely  equal  to  seeing  any 
one. 

“ Then  she  had  better  not  see  me,”  said  Vixen,  icily;  “I  can 
write  her  a little  note  to  say  good-bye.  Perhaps  it  would  be  just 
as  well.  Tell  mamma  that  I will  write,  Pauline.” 

Pauline  departed  with  this  message,  and  returned  in  five  min- 
utes with  a distressed  visage. 

“Oh,  miss!”  she  exclaimed,  “your  message  quite  upset  your 
poor  mamma.  She  said,  ‘How  could  she?’  and  began  to  get  al- 
most hysterical.  And  those  hysterical  fits  end  in  such  fearful 
headaches.” 

“I  will  come  at  once,”  said  Vixen. 

Mrs.  Carmichael  was  lying  on  a sofa  near  an  open  window, 
the  Spanish  blinds  lowered  to  exclude  the  afternoon  sunshine, 
the  perfume  of  the  gardens  floating  in  upon  the  soft  summer  air. 
A tiny  tea-pot  and  cup  and  saucer  on  a Japanese  tray  showed 
that  the  invalid  had  been  luxuriating  in  her  favorite  stimulant. 
There  were  vases  of  flowers  about  the  room,  and  an  all- per- 
vading perfume  and  coolness — a charm  half  sensuous,  half 
aesthetic. 

“Violet,  how  could  you  send  me  such  a message?”  remon- 
strated the  invalid,  fretfully. 

Dear  mamma,  I did  not  want  to  trouble  you.  I know  how 
you  shrink  from  all  painful  things;  and  you  and  I could  hardly 
part  without  pain,  as  we  are  parting  to-day.  Would  it  not  have 
been  better  to  avoid  any  farewell  ?” 

“ If  you  had  any  natural  affection  you  would  never  have  sug- 
gested such  a thing.” 

“ Then,  perhaps,  I have  never  had  any  natural  affection,”  an- 
swered Vixen,  with  subdued  bitterness;  “or  only  so  small  a 
stock  that  it  ran  out  early  in  my  life,  and  left  me  cold  and  hard 
and  unloving.  I am  sorry  we  are  parting  like  this,  mamma.  I 
am  still  more  sorry  that  you  could  not  spare  me  a little  of  the 
regard  which  you  have  bestowed  so  lavishly  upon  a stranger.” 

“ Violet,  how  can  you  ?”  sobbed  her  mother.  “ To  accuse  me 
of  withholding  my  affection  from  you.  when  I have  taken  such 
pains  with  you  from  jmur  very  cradle!  I am  sure  your  frocks, 
from  the  day  you  were  short-coated,  were  ray  constant  care; 
and  when  you  grew  a big,  lanky  girl,  wdio  would  have 
looked  odious  in  commonplace  clothes,  it  was  ray  delight  to  in- 
vent picturesque  and  becoming  costumes  for  you.  I have  spent 
hours  poring  over  books  of  prints,  studying  Vandyke  and  Sir 
Peter  Lely,  and  I have  let  you  w^ear  some  of  my  most  valuable 
lace;  and  as  for  indulgence  of  your  whims!  Pray  when  have  I 
ever  thwarted  you  in  anything?” 

“Forgive me,  mamma!”  cried  Vixen,  penitently.  She  divined 
dimly — even  in  the  midst  of  that  flood  of  bitter  feeling  in  wdiich 
her  young  soul  was  overwhelmed — that  Mrs.  Carmichael  had 
been  a good  mother,  according  to  her  lights.  The  tree  had 
borne  such  fruit  as  was  natural  to  its  kind.  “ Pray  forgive  me. 
You  have  been  good  and  kind  and  indulgent,  and  we  should 


VIXEN.  23P 

have  gone  on  happily  together  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  if  fate 
had  been  kinder.” 

“ It’s  no  use  your  talking  of  fate  in  that  way,  Violet,”  re- 
torted her  mother,  captiously,  “ I know  you  mean  Conrad.” 

‘‘  Perhaps  I do,  mamma;  but  don’t  let  us  talk  of  him  any  more. 
We  should  never  agree  about  him.  You  and  he  can  be  quite 
happy  when  I am  gone.  Poor,  dear,  trusting,  innocent-minded 
mamma!”  cried  Vixen.kneelingby  her  mother’s  chair, and  putting 
her  arms  round  her  ever  so  tenderly.  “ May  your  path  of 
life  be  smooth  and  strewn  with  flowers  when  I am  gone!  If 
Captain  Carmichael  does  not  always  treat  you  kindly,  he  will  be 
a greater  scoundrel  tlian  1 think  him.  But  he  has  always  been 
kind  to  you,  has  Li  not.  mamma?  You  are  not  hiding  any  sor- 
row of  yours  from  me?”  asked  Vixen,  fixing  her  great  brown 
eyes  on  her  mother’s  face  with  earnest  inquiry.  She  had 
assumed  the  maternal  part.  She  seemed  an  anxious  mother 
questioning  her  daughter. 

“ Kind  to  me!”  echoed  Mrs.  Carmichael.  ‘‘He  has  been  all 
goodness.  We  have  never  had  a difference  of  opinion  since  we 
were  married.” 

“ No,  mamma,  because  you  always  defer  to  his  opinion.” 

“ Is  not  that  my  duty,  when  I know  how  clever  and  far- 
seeing  he  is  ?” 

“ Frankly,  dear  mother,  are  you  as  happy  with  this  new  hus- 
band of  yours — so  wise  and  far-seeing,  and  determined  to  have 
his  own  way  in  everything — as  you  were  with  my  dear,  indul- 
gent, easy-tempered  father  ?” 

Pamela  Carmichael  burst  into  a passion  of  tears. 

“ How  can  you  be  so  cruel  ?”  she  exclaimed.  “ Who  can  give 
back  the  past,  or  the  freshness  and  brightness  of  one’s  youth? 
Of  course  I was  happier  with  your  dear  father  than  I can  ever 
be  again.  It  is  not  in  nature  that  it  should  be  otherwise.  Ho\7 
could  you  be  so  heartless  as  to  ask  me  such  a question  ?” 

She  dried  her  tears  slowly,  and  was  not  easily  comforted.  It 
seemed  as  if  that  speech  of  Violet’s  had  touched  a spring  that 
opened  a fountain  of  grief. 

“ This  means  that  mamma  is  not  happy  with  her  second  hus- 
band, in  spite  of  her  praises  of  him,”  thouglit  Vixen. 

She  remained  kneeling  by  her  mother  s side,  comforting  her  as 
best  she  could,  until  Mrs.  Carmichael  had  recovered  from  tlie 
wound  her  daughter’s  heedless  words  had  inflicted,  and  then 
Violet  began  to  say  good-bye. 

“You  will  write  to  me  sometimes,  won’t  you,  mamma,  and 
tell  me  how  the  dear  old  place  is  going  on,*  and  about  the  old 
people  who  die — dear  familiar  white  heads  that  I shall  never  see 
again — and  the  young  people  who  get  married,  and  the  babies 
that  are  born?  You  will  write  often,  won’t  you,  mamma ?” 

“ Yes,  dear,  as  often  as  my  strength  will  allow.” 

“ You  might  even  get  Pauline  to  write  to  me  sometimes,  to 
tell  me  how  you  are  and  what  ^you  are  doing;  that  would  be 
better  than  nothing.” 

“ Pauline  shall  svrite  when  I am  not  equal  to  holding  a pen,” 
sighed  Mrs.  CarmichaeL 


240 


VIXEN. 


“And,  dear  mamma,  if  you  can  prevent  it,  don't  let  any  more 
of  the  old  servants  be  sent  away.  If  they  drop  off  one  by  one, 
home  will  seem  like  a strange  place  at  last.  Remember  how 
they  loved  my  dear  father,  how  attached  and  faithful  they  have 
been  to  us.  They  are  like  our  own  flesh  and  blood.” 

“I  should  never  willingly  part  with  servants  who  know  my 
ways,  Violet.  But  as  to  Bates’s  dismissal — there  are  some  tilings  I 
had  rather  not  discuss  with  you— I am  sure  that  Conrad  acted 
for  the  best,  and  from  the  highest  motives.” 

“Do  you  kncvv  anything  about  this  place  to  which  I am 
going,  mamma?”  asked  Vixen,  letting  her  mother’s  last  speech 
pass  without  comment,  “ or  the  lady  who  is  to  be  my  duenna?” 

“Your  future  has  been  fully  discussed  between  Conrad  and 
me,  Violet.  He  tells  me  that  the  old  Jersey  manor-house — Les 
Tourelles,  it  is  called — is  a delightful  place,  one  of  the  oldest 
seats  in  Jersey,  and  Miss  Skipwith,  to  whom  it  belongs,  is  a 
well-informed,  conscientious  old  lady,  very  religious,  I beheve, 
so  you  will  have  to  guard  against  your  sad  habit  of  speaking 
lightly  about  sacred  things,  my  dear  Violet.” 

“ Do  you  intend  me  to  live  there  forever,  mamma  ?” 

“ Forever!  What  a foolish  question!  In  six  years  you  will  be 
of  age,  and  your  own  mistress.” 

“ Six  years — six  years  in  a Jersey  manor-house  v ith  a pious 
old  lady!  Don’t  you  think  that  would  seem  very  much  like  for- 
ever, mamma?”  asked  Vixen,  gravely. 

“ My  dear  Violet,  neither  Conrad  nor  I want  to  banish  you 
from  your  natural  home.  We  only  want  you  to  learn  wisdom. 
When  Mr.  Vawdrey  is  married,  and  when  you  have  learned  to 
think  more  kindly  of  my  dear  husband ” 

“ That  last  change  will  never  happen  to  me,  mamma.  I shordd 
have  to  die  and  be  born  again  first,  and  even  then  I think  my 
dislike  of  Captain  Carmichael  is  so  strong  that  purgatorial  ^^res 
would  hardly  bum  it  out.  No,  mamma,  we  had  better  say  good- 
bye without  any  forecast  of  the  future.  Let  us  forget  all  that  is 
sad  in  our  parting,  and  think  we  are  only  going  to  part  for  a 
little  while.” 

Many  a time  in  after-days  did  Violet  Tempest  remember  those 
last  serious  words  of  hers.  The  rest  of  her  conversation  with  her 
mother  was  about  trifles — the  trunks  and  bonnet  boxes  she  was 
to  carry  with  her,  the  dresses  she  was  to  wear  in  her  exile. 

“ Of  course  in  a retired  old  house  in  Jersey,  with  an  elderly 
lady,  you  will  not  see  much  society,”  said  Mrs.  Carmichael; 
“ but  Misss  Skipwith  must  know  people — no  doubt  the  best 
i;eople  in  the  island — and  1 should  not  like  3"OU  to  be  shabby. 
Are  you  really  positive  that  you  have  dresses  enough  to  carry 
you  over  next  winter  ?” 

This  last  question  was  asked  with  deepest  solemnity. 

“ More  than  enough,  n^amma.” 

“ And  do  you  think  yoio-  last  winter’s  jacket  will  do?  ” 

“ Excellently.” 

“ I’m  very  glad  of  that,”  said  her  mother,  with  a sigh  of  relief; 
“for  I have  an  awful  bill  of  Theodore’s  hanging  over  my  head. 
I have  been  paying  her  sums  on  account  ever  since  your  poor 


VIXEN. 


241 


papa’s  death;  and  you  know  that  is  never  quite  satisfactory.  All 
that  one  has  paid  hardly  seems  to  make  any  difference  in  the 
amount  due  at  the  end.” 

Don’t  worry  yourself  about  your  bill,  mamma.  Let  it  stand 
over  till  I come  of  age,  and  then  I can  help  you  to  pay  it.” 

‘‘  You  are  very  generous,  dear,  but  Theodore  would  not  wait 
so  long  even  for  me  Be  sure  you  take  plenty  of  wraps  for  the 
steamer.  Summer  nights  are  often  chilly.” 

Vixen  thought  of  last  night,  and  the  long  straight  ride  through 
the  pine  wood,  the  soft  scented  air,  the  young  moon  shining 
down  at  her,  and  Eorie  by  her  side.  Ah  I when  should  she  ever 
know  such  a summer  night  again? 

‘‘Sit  down  in  this  low  chair  by  me  and  have  a cup  of  tea, 
dear,”  said  Mrs.  Carmichael,  growing  more  affectionate  as  the 
hour  of  parting  drew  nearer.  ‘ ‘ Let  us  have  kettle-drum  together 
for  the  last  time,  till  you  come  back  to  us.” 

“ For  the  last  time,  mamma!”  echoed  Violet,  sadly. 

She  could  not  imagine  any  possible  phase  of  circumstances 
that  would  favor  her  return.  Could  she  come  back  to  see  Rod- 
erick Vawdrey  happy  with  his  wife?  Assuredly  not.  Could  she 
school  herself  to  endure  life  under  thereof  that  sheltered  Conrad 
Carmichael?  A thousand  times  no.  Coming  home  w^as  some- 
thing to  be  dreamed  about  when  she  lay  asleep  in  a distant  land, 
but  it  was  a dream  that  never  could  be  realized.  She  must  make 
herself  a new  life  somehow  among  new  peoj^le.  The  old  life 
died  to-day. 

She  sat  and  sipped  her  tea,  and  listened  while  her  mother 
talked  cheerfully  of  the  future,  and  even  pretended  to  agree,  but 
her  heart  was  heavy  as  lead. 

“ An  hour  was  daw^dled  away  thus,  and  then,  w^hen  Mrs.  Car- 
michael began  to  think  about  dressing  for  dinner.  Vixen  went 
off  to  finish  her  packing.  She  excused  herself  from  going  down 
to  dinner  on  the  plea  of  having  so  much  to  do. 

“You  could  send  me  up  something,  please,  mamma,”  she  said. 
“ I am  sure  you  and  Captain  Carmichael  wdll  dine  more  pleas- 
antly without  me.  I shall  see  you  for  a minute  in  the  hall  be- 
fore I start.” 

“ You  must  do  as  you  please,  dear,”  replied  her  mother.  “ I 
hardly  feel  equal  to  going  down  to  dinner  myself;  but  it  would 
not  be  fair  to  let  Conrad  eat  a second  meal  in  solitude,  especially 
when  we  are  to  be  parted  for  two  or  three  days,  and  he  is  going 
across  the  sea.  I shall  not  have  a minute’s  rest  to-night,  think- 
ing of  you  both.” 

“ Sleep  happily,  dear  mother,  and  leave  us  to  Providence.  The 
voyage  cannot  be  perilous  in  such  weather  as  this,”  said  Vixen, 
with  assumed  cheerfulness. 

Two  hours  later  the  carriage  was  at  the  door,  and  Violet  Tem- 
pest was  ready  to  start.  Her  trunks  were  on  the  roof  of  the 
brougham,  her  dressing-bag  and  traveling-desk  and  w^raps  were 
stow^ed  away  inside;  Argus  was  by  her  side,  his  collar  provided 
with  a leather  strap,  by  which  she  could  hold  him  wh'^n  neces-i 
sary.  Captain  Carmicliael  was  smoking  a cigar  on  the  porch. 

Mrs.  Carmichael  came  weening  out  of  the  drawing-room,  and 


243 


VIXE]^. 


hugged  her  daughter  silently.  Violet  returned  the  embrace,  but 
said  not  a wordlill  just  at  the  last. 

“ Dear  mother,”  she  whispered,  earnestly,  “never  be  unhappy 
about  me.  Let  me  bear  the  blame  of  all  that  has  gone  amiss  be- 
tween us.” 

“ You  had  better  be  quick.  Miss  Tempest,  if  you  want  to  be  in 
time  for  the  boat,”  said  the  captain  from  the  porch. 

“ I am  quite  ready,”  answered  Vixen,  calmly. 

Phoebe  was  at  the  carriage  door,  tearful,  and  in  everybody’s 
way,  but  pretending  to  help.  Argus  was  sent  up  to  the  box, 
where  he  sat  beside  the  coachman  with  much  gra  vity  of  demean- 
or, having  first  assured  himself  that  his  mistress  was  inside  the 
carriage.  Mrs.  Carmichael  stood  in  the  porch  kissing  her  hand; 
and  so  the  strong  big  horses  bore  the  carriage  away  through  the 
dark  shrubberies,  between  banks  of  shadowy  foliage,  out  into 
the  forest  road,  which  was  full  of  ghosts  at  this  late  hour,  and 
would  liave  struck  terror  to  the  hearts  of  any  horses  unaccus- 
tomed to  its  sylvan  mysteries. 

They  drove  through  Lyndhurst,  where  the  twinkling  little 
lights  in  the  shop  windows  were  being  extinguished  by  envious 
shutters,  and  where  the  shop-keepers  paused  in  their  work  of 
extinction  to  stare  amazedly  at  the  passing  carriage;  not  that  a 
carriage  was  a strange  apparition  in  Lyndhurst,  but  because  the 
inhabitants  had  so  little  to  do  except  stare. 

Anon  they  came  to  Bolton’s  Bench,  beneath  a cluster  of  pine- 
trees  on  a hilly  bit  of  common,  and  then  the  long  straight  road 
to  Southampton  lay  before  them  in  the  faint  moonshine,  with 
boggy  levels,  black  furze  bushes,  and  a background  of  wood  on 
either  side^  Violet  sat  looking  steadily  out  of  the  window, 
watching  every  bit  of  the  road.  How  could  she  tell  when  she 
would  see  it  again — or  if  ever,  save  in  sad,  regretful  dreams? 

They  mounted  the  hill,  from  whose  crest  Vixen  took  one  last 
backward  look  at  the  wide  wild  land  that  lay  behind  them — a 
look  of  ineffable  love  and  longing.  And  then  she  threw  herself 
back  in  the  carriage,  and  gave  herself  up  to  gloomy  thought. 
There  was  nothing  more  that  she  cared  to  see.  They  had  en- 
tered the  tame,  dull  world  of  civilization.  They  drove  through 
the  village  of  Eling,  where  lights  burned  dimly  here  and  there 
in  upper  windows;  they  crossed  the  slow,  meandering  river  at 
Kedbridge.  Already  the  low  line  of  lights  in  Southampton  city 
began  to  shine  faintly  in  the  distance,  Violet  shut  her  eyes  and 
let  the  landscape  go  by.  Suburban  villas,  suburban  gardens  on 
a straight  road  beside  a broad  river  with  very  little  water  in  it. 
There  was  nothing  here  to  regret. 

It  was  past  eleven  when  they  drove  under  the  old  bar,  and 
through  the  high  street  of  Southampton.  The  town  seemed 
strange  to  Vixen  at  this  unusual  hour.  The  church  clocks  were 
striking  the  quarter.  Down  by  the  docks  everything  had  a 
gray  and  misty  look,  sky  and  water  indistinguishable.  There 
lay  the  Jersey  boat,  snorting  and  puffing  amidst  the  dim  gray- 
ne^'S.  Captain  Carmi(‘hael  conducted  his  charge  to  the  ladies’ 
cabin,  with  no  more  words  than  were  positively  necessary.  They 


VIXEN.  243 

had  not  spoken  once  during  the  drive  from  the  Abbey  House  to 
Southampton. 

1 think  you  had  better  stay  down  here  till  the  vessel  has 
started,  at  any  rate,”  said  the  captain,  “ there  will  be  so  much 
bustle  and  confusion  on  deck.  I’ll  take  care  of  your  dog.” 

‘‘ Thanks,”  answered  Vixen,  meekly.  “Yes,  I’ll  stay  here — 
you  need  not  1 rouble  yourself  about  me.” 

“ Shall  I send  you  something?  A cup  of  tea,  the  wing  of  a 
chicken,  a little  wine  and  water  ?” 

“No,  thanks,  I don’t  care  about  any  thing.” 

The  captain  withdrew  after  this  to  look  after  the  luggage,  and 
to  secure  his  own  berth.  The  stewardess  received  Violet  as  if 
she  had  known  her  all  her  life,  showed  her  the  couch  allotted  to 
her,  and  to  secure  which  the  captain  had  telegraphed  that  morn- 
ing from  Lyndhurst. 

“ It  was  lucky  your  cood  gentleman  took  the  precaution  to  tele- 
graph, mum,”  said  the  cordial  stewardess,  “the  boats  are  al- 
ways crowded  at  this  time  of  the  year,  and  the  Fanny  is  such  a 
favorite.” 

The  cabin  was  wide  and  lofty  and  airy,  quite  an  exceptional 
thing  in  ladies’  cabins;  but  presently  there  came  a troop  of  stout 
matrons  with  their  olive-branches,  all  cross  and  sleepy,  and 
dazed  at  finding  themselves  in  a strange  place  at  an  unearthly 
hour.  There  was  the  usual  sprinkling  of  babies,  and  most  of  the 
babies  cried.  One  baby  was  afflicted  with  unmistakable  whoop- 
ing-cough, and  was  a source  of  terror  to  the  mothers  of  all  the 
other  babies.  There  was  a general  opening  of  hand-bags  and 
distribution  of  buns,  biscuits,  and  sweeties  for  the  comfort  and 
solace  of  this  small  fry.  Milk  was  imbibed  noisily  out  of  myste- 
rious bottles,  some  of  them  provided  with  gutta-percha  tubes, 
which  made  the  process  of  refreshment  look  like  laying  on  gas. 
Vixen  turned  her  back  upon  the  turmoil,  and  listened  to  the  sad 
sea  waves  plashing  lazily  against  the  side  of  the  boat. 

She  wondered  what  Rorie  was  doing  at  this  midnight  hour? 
Did  he  know  yet  that  she  was  gone — ^vanished  out  of  his  life 
forever  ? No;  he  could  hardly  have  heard  of  her  departure  yet 
awhile,  swiftly  as  all  tidings  traveled  in  that  rustic  world  of  the 
Forest.  Had  he  made  up  his  mind  to  keep  faith  with  Lady  Ma- 
bel? Had  he  forgiven  Vixen  for  refusing  to  abet  him  in  treach- 
ery against  his  affianced? 

“ Poor  Rorie!”  sighed  the  girl;  “I  think  we  might  have  been 
happy  together.” 

And  then  she  remembered  the  days  of  old,  when  Mr.  Vawdrey 
was  free,  and  when  it  had  never  dawned  upon  his  slow  intelli- 
gence that  his  old  playfellow,  Violet  Tempest,  was  the  one  wom- 
an in  all  this  wide  world  who  had  the  power  to  make  his  life 
happy. 

“ I think  he  thought  lightly  of  me  because  of  all  our  foolish- 
ness when  he  was  a boy,”  mused  Vixen.  “ I seemed  to  him  less 
than  other  women — because  of  those  old  sweet  memories — in> 
stead  of  more.” 

It  was  a dreary  voyage  for  Violet  Tempest — a kind  of  mari- 
time purgatory:  the  monotonous  thud  of  the  engine,  the  tramp- 


244 


VIXEN. 


ing  of  feet  overhead,  the  creaking  and  groaning  of  the  vessel, 
the  squalling  babies,  the  fussy  mothers,  the  dreadful  people  who 
could  not  travel  from  Southampton  to  Jersey  on  a calm  summer 
night  without  exhibiting  all  the  horrors  of  seasickness.  Vixen 
thought  of  the  sufferings  of  poor  black  human  creatures  in  the 
middle  passage;  of  the  ghastly  terrors  of  a mutiny;  of  a ship  on 
fire;  of  the  -Amcient  Mariner  on  his  slimy  sea,  when 
“ The  very  deep  did  rot;  O ChristI 
That  ever  this  should  be! 

Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea!” 

She  wondered  in  her  weary  soul  whether  these  horrors,  which 
literature  had  made  familiar  to  her,  were  much  worse  than  the 
smart  white  and  gold  cabin  of  the  good  ship  Fanny,  filled  to 
overflowing  with  the  contents  of  half  a dozen  nurseries. 

Toward  daybreak  there  came  a lull.  The  crossest  of  the 
babies  had  exhausted  its  capacity  for  making  its  fellow-creatures 
miserable.  The  seasick  mothers  and  nurses  had  left  off  groan- 
ing. and  starting  convulsively  from  their  pillows  with  wild 
shrieks  for  the  stewaidess,  and  had  sunk  into  troubled  slum- 
bers. Vixen  turned  I e:  back  upon  the  dreadful  scene — dimly 
lighted  by  flickering  oil  lamps,  like  those  that  burn  before 
saintly  shrines  in  an  old  French  cathedral — and  shut  her  eyes 
and  tried  to  lose  herself  in  the  tangled  wilderness  of  sleep.  But 
to-night  that  blessed  refuge  of  the  unhappy  was  closed  against 
her.  The  calm  angel  of  sleep  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  a 
soul  so  troubled.  She  could  only  lie  staring  at  the  port-hole, 
wliicli  stared  back  at  her  like  a gianUs  dark,  angry  eye,  and 
waiting  for  morning. 

Morning  came  at  last,  with  the  skirmishing  toilets  of  the  chil- 
dren, fearful  struggles  for  brushes  and  combs,  towel  fights,  per- 
petual fdamor  for  missing  pieces  of  soap,  a great  deal  of  talk 
about  strings  and  buttons,  and  a chorus  of  crying  babies.  Then 
stole  through  the  stuffy  atmosphere  savor v odors  of  breakfast, 
the  fumes  of  coffee,  fried  bacon,  grilled  fish.  Sloppy -looking 
cups  of  tea  were  administered  to  the  ‘^^fferers  f last  night.  The 
vellow  sunshine  filled  the  cabin.  Vixen  made  a hasty  toilet,  and 
hurried  up  to  the  deck.  Here  all  was  glorious.  A vast  world  of 
sun  lit  water.  No  sign  yet  of  rock-bound  island  above  the 
white-crested  waves.  The  steamer  might  have  been  in  the  midst 
of  the  xitlantic.  Captain  Carmichael  was  on  the  bridge  smoking 
bis  morning  cigar.  He  gave  Violet  a cool  nod  which  she  re- 
turned as  coolly.  She  found  a quiet  corner  where  she  could  sit 
and  watch  the  "waves  slowly  rising  and  falling,  the  white  foam 
crests  slowly  gathering,  the  light  spray  dashing  against  the  side 
of  the  boat,  the  cataract  of  white  roaring  water  leaping  from 
the  swift  paddle-wheel  and  melting  into  a long  track  of  foam. 
By  and  by  they  came  to  Guernsey,  wdiich  looked  grim  and  mili- 
tary, and  not  particularly  inviting  even  in  the  morning  sunlight. 
That  picturesque  island  hides  her  beauties  from  those  who  only 
behold  her  from  the  sea.  Here  there  was  an  exodus  of  pas- 
sengers and  of  luggage,  and  an  invasion  of  natives  with  baskets 
uf  fruit.  Vixen  bought  some  grapes  and  peaches  of  a female 


VIXEK 


245 


native  in  a cap,  whose  patois  was  the  funniest  perversion  of 
French  and  English  iinaginabie.  And  then  a bell  rang  clamor- 
ously, and  there  was  a general  stampede,  and  the  ganf>  way  was 
pulled  up,  and  the  vessel  was  steaming  gayly  toward  Jersey, 
while  Vixen  sat  eating  grapes  and  looking  skyward,  and  won- 
dering whether  her  motlier  was  sleeping  peacefully  under  the 
dear  old  Abbey  House  roof,  undisturbed  by  any  pang  of  remorse 
for  having  parted  with  an  only  child  so  lightly. 

An  hour  or  so  and  Jersey  was  in  sight,  all  rocky  peaks  and 
promontories.  Anon  the  steamer  swept  round  a sudden  curve, 
and  lol  Vixen  beheld  a bristling  range  of  fortifications,  a rather 
untidy  harbor,  and  the  usual  accompaniments  of  a landing- 
place,  the  midsummer  sun  shining  vividly  upon  the  all-pervad- 
ing whiteness. 

“ Is  this  the  bay  that  some  people  have  compared  to  Naples?” 
Violet  asked  her  conductor,  with  a contemptuous  curl  of  her 
mobile  lip,  as  she  and  Captain  Carmichael  took  their  seats  in  a 
roomy  old  fly,  upon  which  the  luggage  was  being  piled  in  the 
usual  mountainous  and  insecure-looking  style. 

“ You  have  not  seen  it  yet  from  the  Neapolitan  point  of  view,” 
said  the  captain.  “This  quay  is  not  the  prettiest  bit  of  Jersey.” 

“ I am  glad  of  that — very  glad,”  answered  Vixen,  acidly;  “for 
if  it  were,  the  Jersey  notion  of  the  beautiful  would  be  my  idea 
of  ugliness.  Oh,  what  an  utterly  too  horrid  streetl”  she  cried, 
as  the  fly  drove  through  the  squalid  approach  to  the  town,  past 
dirty  gutter-bred  children,  and  women  with  babies,  who  looked 
to  the  last  degree  Irish,  and  the  dead  high  wall  of  the  fortifica- 
tions. “Does  your  aunt  live  hereabouts,  par  ecremjpZc,  Captain 
Carmicliael  ?” 

“My  aunt  lives  six  good  miles  from  here,  Miss  Tempest,  in 
one  of  the  loveliest  spots  in  the  island,  amidst  scenery  that  is 
almost  as  fine  as  the  Pyrenees.” 

“ I have  heard  people  say  that  of  anything  respectable  in  the 
shape  of  a hill,”  answereii  Vixen,  witli  a dubious  air. 

She  was  in  a humor  to  take  objection  to  everything,  and  had 
a flippant  air  curiously  at  variance  with  the  dull  aching  of  her 
heart.  She  was  determined  to  take  the  situation  lightly.  Not 
for  worlds  would  she  have  let  Captain  Carmichael  see  her 
wounds,  or  guess  hovv  deep  they  were.  She  set  her  face  steadily 
toward  the  hills  in  which  her  place  of  exile  was  hidden,  and 
bore  herself  bravely.  Conrad  Carmichael  gave  her  many  a fur- 
tive glance  as  he  sat  opposite  her  in  the  fly,  while  they  drove 
slowly  up  the  steep  green  country  lanes,  leaving  the  white  town 
in  the  valley  below  them. 

“The  place  is  not  so  bad,  after  all,”  said  Vixen,  looking  back 
at  the  conglomeration  of  white  walls  and  slate  roofs,  of  docks 
and  shipping  and  barracks,  on  the  edge  of  a world  of  blue  water; 
“ not  nearly  so  odious  as  it  looked  when  we  landed.  But  it  is  a 
little  disappointing  at  best,  like  all  places  that  people  praise 
ridiculously.  I had  pictured  Jersey  as  a tropical  island,  with 
cactuses  and  Cape  jasmine  growing  in  the  hedges,  orchards  of 
peaches  and  apricots,  and  melons  running  wild.” 

“ To  my  mind  the  island  is  a pocket  edition  of  Devonshire, 


246 


VIXEN. 


with  a dash  of  Brittany,”  answered  the  captain.  There’s  a fig- 
tree  for  youl”  he  cried,  pointing  to  a great  spreading  mass  of 
five-fingered  leaves  lolloping  over  a pink  plastered  garden  wall — 
an  old  untidy  tree  that  had  swallowed  up  the  whole  extent  of  a 
cottager's  garden.  ““You  don’t  see  anything  like  that  in  the 
forest 

“No,”  answered  Vixen,  tightening  her  lips;  “we  have  only 
oaks  and  beeches  that  have  been  growing  since  the  Heptarchy.” 

And  now  they  entered  a long  lane,  where  the  interlaced  tree- 
tops  made  an  arcade  of  foliage — a lane  whose  beauty  even  Vixen 
could  not  gainsay.  Ah,  there  were  the  Hampshire  ferns  on  t he 
steep  green  banks!  She  gave  a little  choking  sob  at  sight  of 
them,  as  if  they  had  been  living  things.  Hart’s-tongue,  and 
lady-fern,  and  the  whole  family  of  osmundas.  Yes;  they  were 
all  there.  It  was  like  home— with  a difference. 

Here  and  there  they  passed  a modern  villa^  in  its  park-like 
grounds,  and  the  captain,  who  evidently  wished  to  be  pleasant, 
tried  to  expound  to  Violet  the  conditions  of  Jersey  leases,  and 
the  difficulties  which  attend  the  purchase  of  land  or  tenements 
in  that  feudal  settlement.  But  Vixen  did  not  even  endeavor  to 
understand  him.  She  listened  with  an  air  of  polite  vacancy 
which  was  not  encouraging. 

They  passed  various  humbler  homesteads,  painted  a lively 
pink  or  a refreshing  lavender,  with  gardens  where  the  fuchsias 
were  trees  covered  with  ciamson  bloom,  acd  where  gigantic  hy- 
drangeas bloomed  in  palest  pink  and  brightest  azure  in  ^vildesfc 
abundance.  Here  Vixen  beheld  for  the  first  time  those  prepos- 
terous cabbages  from  whose  hypernatural  growth  the  islanders 
seem  to  derive  a loftier  pride  than  from  any  other  productions  of 
the  island,  not  excepting  its  grapes  and  its  lobsters. 

“ I don't  suppose  you  ever  saw  cabbages  growing  six  feet  high 
before,”  said  the  captain. 

“No,”  answered  Vixen;  “ they  are  too  preposterous  to  be  met 
with  in  a tdvilized  country.  Poor  Charles  the  Second ! I don’t 
wonder  that  he  was  wild  and  riotous  when  he  came  to  be  king.” 

“ Why  not?” 

“ Because  he  had  spent  several  monflis  of  exile  among  his 
loyal  subjects  in  Jersey.  A man  who  h id  been  buried  alive  in 
such  a fragmentary  bit  of  the  world  must  have  required  some, 
compensation  in  after-life.” 

They  had  mounted  a long  hill  which  seemed  the  pinnacle  of 
the  island,  and  from  whose  fertile  summit  the  view  was  full  of 
beauty — a green  undulating  gaixlen  world,  ringed  with  yellow 
sands  and  bright  blue  sea;  and  now  they  began  to  descend  gently 
by  a winding  lane  where  again  the  topmost  elm  branches  were 
interwoven,  and  where  the  glowing  June  day  was  softened  to  a 
tender  twilight.  A curve  in  the  lane  brought  them  suddenly  to 
an  old  gateway,  with  a crumbling  stone  bench  in  a nook  heside 
it — a bench  where  the  wayfarer  used  to  sit  and  wait  for  alms, 
when  the  site  of  Les  Tourelles  was  occupied  by  a monastery. 

The  old  manor-house  rose  up  behind  the  dilapidated  wall — a 
goodly  old  house  as  to  size  and  form — overlooking  a noble  sweep 
of  hili-side and  valley;  a house  caiha  roof  for  pur- 


VIXEN. 


247 


poses  of  observation,  but  with  as  dreary  and  abandoned  a look 
about  its  blank  curtainless  windows  as  if  mansion  and  estate  had 
been  in  Chancery  for  the  last  half  century. 

“ A fine  old  place,  is  it  not?”  asked  the  captain,  while  a 
cracked  bell  was  jingling  in  remote  distance  amidst  the  drowsy 
summer  stillness,  without  eliciting  so  mucli  as  the  bark  of  a 
house-dog. 

“It  looks  very  big,”  Violet  answered,  dubiously,  “and  very 
empty.” 

“ My  aunt  has  no  relatives  residing  with  her.” 

“If  she  had  started  in  life  wdth  a large  family  of  brothers  and 
and  sisters,  I should  think  they  would  all  be  dead  by  this  time,” 
said  the  girl,  with  a stified  yawn  that  was  half  a sigh. 

“ How  do  you  mean?” 

“ They  would  have  died  of  the  stillness  and  solitude  and  all- 
pervading  desolation  of  Les  Tourelles.” 

“Strange  houses  are  apt  to  look  desolate.” 

“Yes.  Particularly  when  the  windows  have  neither  blinds 
nor  curtains,  and  the  walls  have  not  been  painted  for  a cent- 
ury.” 

After  this  conversation  flagged.  The  jingling  bell  was  once 
more  set  going  in  the  unknown  distance;  Vixen  sat  looking 
sleepily  at  the  arched  roof  of  foliage  checkered  with  blue 
sky.  Argus  lolled  against  the  carriage  door  with  his  tongue 
out. 

They  waited  five  minutes  or  so,  languidly  expectant.  Vixen 
began  to  wonder  whether  the  gates  would  ever  open,  whether 
there  were  really  any  living  human  creatures  in  that  blank  dead- 
locking house,  whether  they  would  not  have  to  give  up  all  idea 
of  entering,  and  drive  back  to  the  harbor,  and  return  to  Hamp- 
shire by  the  way  they  had  come. 

While  she  sat  idly  wondering  thus,  with  the  sleepy  buzz  of 
summer  insects  and  melodious  twittering  of  birds  soothing  her 
senses  like  a lullaby,  the  old  gate  groaned  upon  its  rusty  hinges, 
and  a middle-aged  woman  in  a black  gown  and  a white  cap  ap- 
peared— a female  who  recognized  Captain  Carmichael  with 
a courtesy,  and  came  out  to  receive  the  smaller  packages  from 
the  flyman. 

“Antony  will  take  the  portmanteaus,”  she  said.  “The  boat 
must  have  come  in  earlier  tlian  usual;  we  did  not  expect  you  so 
soon.” 

“This  is  one  of  Miss  Skipwith’s  servants,”  thought  Vixen; 
“rather  a vinegary  personage.  I hope  the  other  maids  are 
nicer.”  ^ 

The  person  spoken  of  as  Antony  now  appeared,  and  began  to 
hale  about  Violet’s  portmanteaus.  He  was  a middle-aged  man, 
with  a bald  head  and  a melancholy  aspect.  His  raiment  was 
shabby;  his  costume  something  between  that  of  a lawyer’s  clerk 
and  an  agricultural  laborer.  Argus  saluted  this  individual  with 
a suppressed  growl. 

“Sh!”  cried  the  female,  vindictively,  flapping  her  apron  at  the 
dog;  “whose  dog  is  this,  sir?  He  doesn’t  belong  to  you,, 
surely  ?” 


243 


VIXEN. 


“ He  belongs  to  Miss  Tempest.  You  must  find  a corner  for 
him  somewhere  in  the  out-buildings,  Hannah,”  said  the  captain. 
“The  dog  is  harmless  enough  and  friendly  enough  when  he  is 
used  to  people.” 

“ That  won’t  be  much  good  if  he  bites  us  before  he  gets  used 
to  us,  and  we  die  of  hydropliobia  in  the  meantime,”  retorted 
Hannah;  “I  believe  he  has  taken  a dislike  to  Antony  alreadj^” 

“ Argus  won’t  bite  any  one,”  said  Yixen,  laying  her  hand  upon 
the  dog’s  collar;  “ I’ll  answer  for  his  good  conduct.  Please  try 
and  find  him  a nice  snug  nest  somewhere — if  I mustn’t  have  him 
in  the  house.” 

“ In  the  house!”  cried  Hannah.  “ Miss  Skipwith  would  faint 
at  the  mention  of  such  a tiling  I don’t  know  how  she’ll  ever  put 
up  with  a huge  beast  like  that  anywhere  about  the  place.  Ho 
must  be  kept  as  much  out  of  her  sight  as  possible.” 

“ I’m  sorry  Argus  isn’t  welcome,”  said  Vixen,  proudly. 

She  was  thinking  that  her  own  welcome  at  Les  Tourelles  could 
hardly  be  more  cordial  than  that  accorded  to  Argus.  She  had 
left  home  because  nobody  wanted  her  there,  How^  could  she  ex- 
pect that  any  one  wanted  her  here,  w here  she  w^as  a stranger, 
preceded,  perhaps,  by  the  reputation  of  her  vices?  The  woman 
in  the  rusty  mourning  gown,  the  man  in  the  shabby  raiment  and 
clod-hopper  boots  gave  her  no  smile  of  greeting.  Over  this  new 
home  of  hers  there  hung  an  unspeakable  melancholy.  Her  heart 
sank  as  she  crossed  the  threshold. 

Oh,  what  a neglected,  poverty-stricken  air  the  garden  had, 
after  the  gardens  Violet  Tempest  had  been  accustomed  to  look 
upon ! Ragged  trees,  rank  grass,  empty  fiower  beds,  w eeds  in 
abundance.  A narrow,  paved  colonnade  ran  along  one  side  of 
the  house.  They  went  by  this  paved  way  to  a dingy  little  door 
— not  the  hall  door,  that  was  never  opened — and  entered  the 
house  by  a lobby,  which  opened  into  a small  parlor,  dark  and 
shabby,  with  one  window  looking  into  a court-yard.  There 
were  a good  many  books  upon  the  green  baize  table-cover;  pious 
books  mostly,  Vixen  saw,  with  a strange  revulsion  of  feeling,  as 
if  that  were  the  culmination  of  her  misery.  There  was  an  old- 
fashioned  work-table,  with  a faded  red  silk  well,  beside  the  open 
window.  A spectacle-case  on  the  work-table  and  an  arm-chair 
before  it  indicated  that  the  room  had  been  lately  occupied.  It 
was  altogether  one  of  the  shabbiest  rooms  Vixen  had  ever  seen, 
the  furniture  belonging  to  the  most  odious  period  of  cabinet- 
making, the  carpet  unutterably  dingy,  the  walls  mildewed  and 
moldy,  the  sole  decorations  some  pale  engravings  of  naval  bat- 
tles, which  migiit  be  the  victories  or  defeats  of  any  maritime 
hero  from  Drake  to  Nelson. 

“Come and  see  the  house,”  said  the  captain,  reading  the  dis- 
gust in  his  step-daughter’s  pale  face. 

He  opened  a door  leading  into  the  hall— a large  and  lofty  apart- 
ment, wdth  a fine  old  staircase  asceniling  to  a square  gallery. 
The  heavy  oak  balusters  had  been  painted  wdiite;  so  had  the  pan- 
eling in  the  hall.  Time  had  converted  both  to  a dusky  gray. 
Some  rusty  odds  and  ends  of  armor  and  a few  dingy  family  por- 


VIXEN.  249 

traits  decorated  the  walls,  but  of  furniture  there  was  not  a 
vestige. 

Opening  out  of  the  hall  there  was  a large,  long  room,  wuth 
four  wintlows  looking  into  a small  wilderness  that  had  once  been 
a garden,  and  commanding  a fine  view  of  land  and  sea.  This 
the  captain  called  the  drawing-room.  It  was  sparsely  furnished 
with  a spindle-legged  table,  half  a dozen  arm-chairs  covered  with 
faded  tapestry,  an  antique  walnut- wood  cabinet,  another  of 
ebony,  a small  oasis  of  carpet  in  the  middle  of  the  bare  oak 
floor. 

“ This  and  the  parlor  you  have  seen  are  all  the  sitting-rooms 
my  aunt  occupies,”  said  Captain  Carmichael ; ‘‘  the  rest  of  the 
rooms  on  this  floor  are  empty,  or  only  used  for  store-] lOuses.  It 
is  a fine  old  house.  I believe  the  finest  in  the  island.” 

“Is  there  a history  hanging  to  it?”  asked  Vixen,  looking 
drearily  round  the  spacious  desolate  chamber.  “ Has  it  been 
used  as  a prison,  or  a mad -house,  or  what?  I never  saw  a house 
that  filled  me  with  such  nameless  horrors.” 

“ You  are  fanciful,”  said  the  captain.  “ The  house  has  no  story 
except  the  common  history  of  fallen  fortunes.  It  has  been  in  the 
Skip  with  family  ever  since  it  was  built.  They  w^ere  Leicester- 
shire people,  and  came  to  Jersey  after  the  civil  war — came  here 
to  be  near  tlieir  prince  in  his  exile — settled  here  and  built  Les 
Tourelles.  I believe  they  expected  Charles  would  do  something 
handsome  for  them  when  he  came  into  his  own  ; but  he  didn't 
do  anything.  Sir  John  Skipwith  stayed  in  the  island  and  became 
a large  land  owner,  and  died  at  an  advanced  age — there  is  noth- 
ing to  kill  people  here,  you  see — and  the  Skipwiths  have  been 
Jersey  people  ever  since.  They  were  once  the  richest  family  in 
the  island.  They  are  now  one  of  the  poorest.  When  I say  they, 
I mean  my  aunt.  She  is  the  last  of  her  race.  The  Skipwiths 
have  crystallized  into  one  maiden  lady,  my  mother’s  only  sister.” 

“ Then  your  mother  was  a Skipwith  ?”  asked  Violet. 

“ Yes.” 

“ And  she  was  born  and  brought  up  here  ?” 

“Yes.  She  never  left  Jersey  till  my  father  married  her.  He 
was  here  with  his  regiment  when  they  met  at  the  governor’s 
ball.  Oh,  here  is  my  aunt,”  said  the  captain,  as  a rustling  of  silk 
sounded  in  the  empty  ha-ll. 

Vixen  drew  herself  up  stiffly,  as  if  preparing  to  meet  a foe. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  detest  Miss  Skipwith. 

The  lady  of  the  manor  entered.  She  shook  hands  with  her 
nephew,  and  presented  him  with  a pale  and  shriveled  cheek, 
wliich  he  respectfully  saluted. 

She  was  an  elderly  and  faded  person,  very  tall  and  painfully 
thin,  but  aristocratic  to  the  highest  degree.  There  was  the  in- 
dication of  race  in  her  aquiline  nose,  high  narrow  brow  and 
neatly  cut  chin,  her  tapering  hand  and  small  slender  foot.  She 
was  dressed  in  black  silk,  rustier  and  older  than  any  silk  Vixen 
had  ever  seen  before,  not  even  excepting  Mrs.  ScobeTs  black 
silk  dresses,  when  tliey  had  been  degraded  from  their  original 
rank  to  the  scrubbery  of  early  services  and  daily  wear.  Her 
thin  gray  hair  was  shaded  by  her  black  lace  cap,  decorated  with 


250 


VIXEN. 


bugles  and  black  weedy  grasses.  She  wore  brack  mittens  and 
let  jewelry,  and  was  altogether  as  deeply  sable  as  if  she  had 
been  in  mourning  for  the  whole  of  the  Skipwith  race. 

She  received  Miss  Tempest  with  a formal  politeness  which  was 
not  encouraging. 

“ I hope  you  will  be  able  to  make  yourself  happy  here,”  she 
said,  ‘‘and  that  you  have  resources  within  yourself  that  will 
suffice  for  the  employment  of  your  time  and  thoughts.  I re- 
ceive no  company*  and  I never  go  out.  The  class  of  people  who 
now  occupy  the  island  are  a class  with  which  I should  not  care 
to  associate,  and  which,  I dare  say,  would  not  appreciate  me.  I 
have  my  own  resources,  and  my  life  is  fully  employed.  My 
only  complaint  is  that  the  days  are  not  long  enough.  A quiet 
existence  like  mine  offers  vast  opportunities  for  culture  and 
self-improvement.  I hope  you  will  take  advantage  of  them, 
Miss  Tempest.” 

Poor  Violet  faltered  something  vaguely  civil,  looking  sorely 
bewildered  all  the  time.  Miss  Skipwith’s  speech  sounded  so 
like  the  address  of  a school- mistress  that  Vixen  began  to  think 
she  had  been  trapped  unawares  in  a school,  as  people  are  some- 
times trapped  in  a mad-house. 

“ I don’t  think  Miss  Tempest  is  given  much  to  study,”  said 
the  captain,  graciously,  as  if  he  and  Violet  were  on  the  friend- 
liest terms;  “ but  she  is  very  fond  of  the  country,  and  I am 
sure  the  scenery  of  Jersey  will  delight  her.  By  the  way,  we 
ventured  to  bring  her  big  dog.  He  will  be  a companion  and 
protector  for  her  in  her  walks.  I have  asked  Doddery  to  find 
him  a kennel  somewhere  among  your  capacious  outbuildings.” 

“ He  must  not  come  into  the  house,”  said  Miss  Skipwith,  grimly; 
“I  couldn’t  have  a dog  inside  my  doors.  I have  a Persian  that 
has  been  m}^  attached  companion  for  the  last  ten  years.  What 
would  that  dear  creature’s  f'=‘elings  be  if  be  saw  himself  exposed 
to  the  attacks  of  a savage  dog  ?” 

“My  dog  is  not  savage  to  Persians  or  anyone  else,”  cried 
Vixen,  wondering  what  inauspicious  star  had  led  the  footsteps 
of  an  Oriental  wander  to  so  dreary  a refuge  as  Les  Tourelles. 

“You  would  like  to  see  your  bedroom,  perhaps?”  suggested 
Miss  Skipwith;  and  on  Violet’s  assenting,  she  was  handed  over 
to  Hannah  Doddery,  the  woman  who  had  opened  the  gate. 

Hannah  led  the  way  up  the  broad  old  staircase,  ail  bare  and 
carpetless,  and  opened  one  of  the  doors  in  the  gallery.  The  room 
into  which  she  ushered  Violet  was  large  and  airy,  with  windows 
commanding  the  fair  garden-like  island  and  the  wide  blue  sea. 
But  there  was  the  same  bare,  poverty-stricken  Took  in  this  room 
as  in  every  other  part  of  the  manor-house.  The  bed  was  a tall, 
melancholy  four-poster,  with  scantiest  draperies  of  faded  drab 
damask.  Save  for  one  little  islet  of  thread  oare  Brussels  beside 
the  bed,  the  room  was  carpetless.  There  was  an  ancient  wainscot 
wardrobe  with  brass  handles.  There  was  a modern  deal  dressing- 
table  skimpily  draped  with  muslin,  and  surmounted  by  the 
smallest  of  looking-glasses.  There  were  a couple  of  chairs  and  a 
three-cornered  wash-hand  stand.  There  was  neither  sofa  not 
writing-table.  There  was  not  an  ornament  on  the  high  wooden 


VIXEN. 


25? 


mantel-shelf,  or  a picture  on  the  paneled  walls.  Vixen  shivered 
as  she  surveyed  the  barren  room. 

“I  think  you  will  find  everything  comfortable,”  said  Mrs. 
Doddery,  with  a formal  air  which  seemed  to  say,  “And  whethei 
you  do  or  do  not  matters  nothing  to  me.” 

“Thank  you,  yes,  I dare  say  it  is  all  right,”  Vixen  answered, 
absently,  standing  at  one  of  the  windows,  gazing  out  over  the 
green  hills  and  valleys  to  tlie  fair  summer  sea,  and  wondering 
whether  she  would  be  able  to  take  comfort  from  the  fertile 
beauty  of  the  island. 

“ The  bed  has  been  well  aired,”  continued  Mrs.  Doddery, 
“ and  I can  answer  for  the  cleanliness  of  everything.” 

“ Thanks.  Will  you  kindly  send  one  of  the  maids  to  help  me 
unpack  my  portmanteau  ?” 

“lean  assist  you,”  Mrs.  Doddery  answered.  “We  have  no 
maid-servant.  My  husband  and  I are  able  to  do  all  that  Miss 
Skipwith  requires.  She  is  a lady  who  gives  so  little  trouble.” 

“ Do  you  mean  to  say  there  are  no  other  servants  in  this  great 
house — no  house-maids,  no  cooks?” 

“ I have  cooked  for  Miss  Skipwith  for  the  last  thirty  years. 
The  house  is  large,  but  there  are  very  few  rooms  in  occupation.” 

“I  ought  to  have  brought  my  maid,”  cried  Vixen.  “It  will 
be  quite  dreadful.  I don’t  want  much  waiting  upon;  but  still  I’m 
afraid  I shall  give  some  trouble  until  I learn  to  do  everything 
for  myself.  Just  as  if  I were  cast  on  a desert  island,”  she  said 
to  herself  in  conclusion;  and  then  she  thought  of  Helen  Rolles- 
ton,  the  petted  beauty  in  Charles  Reade’s  toul  Play,  cast  with 
her  faithful  lover  on  an  unknown  island  of  the  fair  southern  sea. 
But  in  this  island  of  Jersey  there  was  no  faithful  lover  to  give 
romance  and  interest  to  the  situation.  There  was  nothing  but 
dull  dreary  reality. 

“ I dare  say  I shall  be  able  to  do  all  you  require  without  feel- 
ing it  any  extra  trouble,  unless  you  are  very  helpless,”  said  Mrs. 
Doddery;  who  was  on  her  knees  unstrapping  one  of  the  port- 
manteaus. 

“I  am  not  helpless,”  replied  Vixen,  “though  I dare  say  I 
have  been  waited  on  much  more  than  was  good  for  me.” 

And  then  she  knelt  down  before  the  other  portmanteau,  and 
undid  the  buckles  of  the  thick  leather  straps,  in  which  opera- 
tion  she  broke  more  than  one  of  her  nails,  and  wounded  her  rosy 
finger-tips. 

“ Oh,  dear,  what  a useless  creature  I am!”  she  thought;  “ and 
why  do  people  strap  portmanteaus  so  tightly?  Never  mind; 
after  a month’s  residence  at  Le?  Tourelles  I shall  be  a Spartan.” 

“ Would  you  like  me  to  unpack  your  trunks  for  you?”  inquired 
Mrs.  Doddery,  with  an  accent  which  sounded  slightly  ironical. 

“ Oh  no,  thanks;  I can  get  on  very  well  now,”  answered  Vix- 
en, quickly;  whereupon  the  housekeeper  opened  the  drawers  and 
cupboards  in  the  big  wainscot  wardrobe,  and  left  Miss  Tempest 
to  her  own  devices. 

The  shelves  and  drawers  were  neatly  lined  with  white  paper, 
and  strewed  with  dried  lavender.  This  was  luxury  which  Vix^ 
en  had  not  expected.  She  laid  her  pretty  dresses  on  the  shelves, 


m 


VIXEN. 


Bmiling  scornfully  as  she  looked  at  them.  Of  what  use  could 
pretty  dresses  be  in  a desert  island  ? And  here  were  her  riding 
habit  and  her  collection  of  whips — useless  lumber  where  there 
was  no  hope  of  a horse.  She  was  obliged  to  put  her  books  in  the 
wardrobe  as  there  was  no  other  place  for  them.  Her  desk  and 
work-box  she  was  fain  to  place  on  the  floor,  for  the  small  dress- 
ing-table would  accommodate  no  more  than  her  dressing-case, 
devotional  books,  brushes  and  combs,  pomatum  pots,  and  pin 
boxes. 

Oh  dear!”  she  sighed.?  ‘‘I  have  a great  deal  too  much  prop- 
erty for  a desert  island.  I wonder  whether  in  some  odd  comer 
of  Les  Tourelles  I could  find  such  a thing  as  a spare  table  ?” 

When  she  had  finished  her  unpacking  she  went  down  to  the 
hall.  Not  seeing  any  one  about,  and  desiring  rather  to  avoid 
Captain  Carmichael  and  his  aunt  than  to  rejoin  them,  she  wan- 
dered out  of  the  hall  into  one  of  the  many  passages  of  the  old 
manor-house,  and  began  a voyage  of  discovery  on  her  own  ac- 
count. 

“ If  they  ask  me  what  I have  been  doing,  I can  say  I lost  my- 
self,” she  thought. 

She  found  the  most  curious  rooms,  or  rather  rooms  that 
had  once  been  stately  and  handsome  now  applied  to  the  most  cu- 
rious purposes:  a dining-hall  with  carved  stone  chimney-piece 
and  painted  ceiling,  used  as  a store- house  for  apples;  another 
fine  apartment  in  which  a heap  of  potatoes  reposed  snugly  in  a 
corner,  packed  in  straw;  there  was  a spacious  kitchen,  with  a 
fire-place  as  large  as  a moderate-sized  room — a kitchen  that  had 
been  abandoned  altogether  to  spiders,  beetles,  rats,  and  mice.  A 
whole  army  of  four-footed  vermin  scampered  off  as  Vixen  cross- 
ed the  threshold.  She  could  see  them  scuttling  and  scurrying 
along  by  the  wall  with  a whisking  of  slender  tails  as  they  vanished 
into  their  holes.  The  beetles  were  disporting  themselves  on  the 
desolate  hearth,  the  spiders  had  woven  draperies  for  the  dim, 
dirty  windows.  The  rustling  leaves  of  a fig-tree,  that  had  grown 
close  to  this  side  of  the  house,  flapped  against  the  window-panes 
with  a noise  of  exceeding  ghostliness. 

From  the  kitchen  Vixen  wandered  to  the  out-houses,  and 
found  Argus  howling  dismally  in  a grass-grown  court-yard, 
evidently  believing  himself  abandoned  by  the  world.  His  rapt- 
ure at  beholding  his  mistress  was  boundless. 

‘‘  You  darling,  I would  give  the  world  to  let  you  loose,”  cried 
Vixen,  after  she  had  been  nearly  knocked  down  by  the  dog’s 
affectionate  greeting;  “ but  I mustn't  just  yet.  I’ll  come  by  and 
by  and  take  you  for  a walk.  Yes,  dear  old  boy,  we’ll  have  a long 
ramble  together,  just  as  we  used  to  do  at  home.” 

Home,  now  she  had  left  it,  seemed  so  sweet  a word,  that  her 
lips  trembled  a little  as  she  pronounced  it. 

Everything  without  the  house  was  as  dreary  as  it  was  within. 
Poverty  had  set  its  mark  on  all  things,  lilce  a blight.  Decay  was 
visible  everywhere — in  the  wood-work,  in  the  stone-work,  in 
hinges  and  handles,  thresholds  and  lintels,  ceilings  and  plasrered 
wails.  It  would  have  cost  a thousand  pounds  to  put  the  manor- 
house  in  decent  habitable  order.  To  have  restored  it  to  its  origi- 


VIXEN. 


253 


nal  dignity  and  comeliness  would  have  cost  at  least  five  thou- 
sp^'d.  Miss  Skip  with  could  afford  to  spend  nothing  upon  the 
house  she  lived  in;  indeed,  she  could  barely  afford  the  neces- 
saries of  life.  So  for  the  last  thirty  years  Les  Tourelles  had  been 
gradually  decaying,  until  the  good  old  house  had  arrived  at  a 
stage  in  which  decay  could  hardly  go  further  without  lapsing 
into  destruction. 

A door  opened  out  of  the  court-yard  into  the  weedy  garden. 
This  was  not  without  a kind  of  beauty  that  had  survived  long 
neglect.  Tiie  spreading  fig-trees,  the  bushes  of  bright  red  fuch- 
sia, and  the  unpmned  roses  made  a fertile  wilderness  of  flowers 
and  foliage.  There  was  a terrace  in  front  of  the  drawing-room 
windows,  and  from  this  a flight  of  crumbling  moss-gi*own  stone 
steps  led  down  to  the  garden,  which  was  on  the  slope  of  the  hill, 
and  lay  considerably  below  the  level  of  the  house. 

While  Vixen  was  perambulating  the  garden,  a bell  rang  in  a 
cupola  on  the  roof;  and  as  this  sounded  like  the  summons  to  a 
meal,  she  felt  that  politeness,  if  not  appetite,  demanded  her  re- 
turn to  the  house. 

“ Tliree  o’clock,”  she  said,  looking  at  her  watch.  “ What  a 
late  hour  for  luncheon!” 

She  made  her  way  back  to  the  small  side  door  at  which  she 
had  entered  with  Captain  Carmichael,  and  went  into  the  parlor, 
where  she  found  the  captain  and  his  aunt.  The  table  was  laid, 
but  they  had  not  seated  themselves. 

“ I hope  I have  not  kept  you  waiting,”  Vixen  said,  apologet- 
ically. 

“ My  aunt  has  been  waiting  five  minutes  or  so;  but  I’m  sure 
she  will  forgive  you,  as  you  don’t  yet  know  the  ways  of  the 
house,”  replied  the  captain,  amiably. 

“ We  have  early  habits  at  Les  Tourelles,  Miss  Tempest,”  said 
the  lady  of  the  manor:  “we  breakfast  at  half  past  seven  and 
dine  at  three;  that  arrangement  gives  me  a long  morning  for 
study.  At  six  we  drink  tea;  and  if  you  care  for  supper,  it  can 
be  served  for  you  on  a tray  at  half  past  nine.  The  house  is  shut 
and  all  lamps  put  out  at  ten.” 

“ As  regularly  as  on  board  ship,”  said  the  captain.  “ I know 
the  customs  of  the  manor  of  old.” 

“You  have  never  favored  me  with  a long  visit,  Conrad,”  re- 
marked Miss  Skipwith,  reproachfully. 

“ My  life  has  been  too  busy  for  making  long  visits  anywhere, 
my  dear  aunt.” 

They  took  their  places  at  the  small  square  table,  and  Miss 
Skipwith  said  grace.  Antony  Doddery  was  in  attendance,  clad 
in  rusty  black,  and  looking  as  like  a butler  as  a man  wlio  cleaned 
windows,  scrubbed  floors,  and  hewed  wood  could  be  fairly  ex- 
pected to  look.  He  removed  the  cover  of  a modest  dish  of  fish 
with  a grand  air,  and  performed  all  the  services  of  the  table  with 
as  much  dignity  as  if  he  had  never  been  anything  less  than  a 
butler.  He  poured  out  a glass  of  ale  for  the  captain  and  a glass 
of  water  for  his  mistress.  Miss  Skipwith  seemed  relieved  when 
Violet  said  she  preferred  water  to  ale,  and  did  not  particulaily 
care  about  wine. 


254 


VIXEN. 


‘‘  I used  to  drink  wine  at  home  very  often,  just  because  it  wpb 
put  in  my  glass,  but  I like  water  quite  as  well,”  said  Vixen. 

After  the  fish  there  came  a small  joint  of  lamb,  and  a coupl£ 
of  dishes  of  vegetables;  then  a small  custard  pudding  and  some 
cheese  cut  up  in  very  minute  pieces  in  a glass  dish,  some  ra^ 
garden-stuff  which  Doddery  called  salad,  and  three  of  last  year’s 
pears  in  an  old  Derby  dessert  dish.  The  dinner  could  hardly 
have  been  smaller,  but  it  was  eminently  genteel. 

The  conversation  was  entirely  between  Captain  Carmichael 
and  his  aunt.  Vixen  sat  and  listened  wonderingly,  save  at  odd 
times,  when  her  thoughts  strayed  back  to  the  old  life  which  she 
had  done  with  forever. 

‘‘You  still  continue  your  literary  labors,  I suppose,  aunt,”  said 
the  captain. 

“They  are  the  chief  object  of  my  existence.  When  I aban- 
don them  I shall  have  done  with  life,”  replied  Miss  Skipmith, 
gravely. 

“ But  you  have  not  yet  published  your  book.” 

“ No;  I hope  when  Ido  that  even  you  will  hear  of  it.” 

“ I have  no  doubt  it  will  make  a sensation.” 

“ If  it  does  not  I have  lived  and  labored  in  vain.  But  my  book 
may  make  a sensation,  and  yet  fall  far  short  of  the  result  which  I 
have  toiled  and  hoped  for. 

“ And  that  is  ?” 

“ The  establishment  of  a universal  religion.” 

“ That  is  a large  idea.” 

“ Would  a small  idea  be  worth  the  devotion  of  a fife?  For 
thirty  years  I have  devoted  myself  to  this  one  scheme.  I have 
striven  to  focus  all  the  creeds  of  mankind  in  one  brilliant  center, 
eliminating  all  that  is  base  and  superstitious  in  each  several  re- 
ligion, crystallizing  all  that  is  good  and  true.  The  Buddhist, 
the  Brahmin,  the  Mohammedan,  the  Sun- worshiper,  the 
Romanist,  the  Calvinist,  the  Lutheran,  the  Wesleyan,  the 
Swedenborgian — each  and  all  will  find  the  best  and  noblest  char- 
acteristics of  his  faith  resolved  and  concentered  in  my  universal 
religion.  Here  all  creeds  will  meet.  Gentler  and  wiser  than  the 
theology  of  Buddha;  more  humanitarian  than  the  laws  of 
Brahma;  more  temperate  than  the  Moslem’s  code  of  morality; 
with  a wider  grasp  of  power  than  the  Romanist’s  authoritative 
Church;  severely  self-denying  as  Calvin’s  ascetic  rule;  simple 
and  pious  as  Wesley’s  scheme  of  man’s  redemption;  spiritual  as 
Swedenborg’s  vast  idea  of  heaven — my  faith  will  open  its  arms 
wide  enough  to  embrace  all.  There  need  be  no  more  dissent. 
The  mighty  circle  of  ray  free  Church  will  inclose  all  creeds  and 
all  divisions  of  man,  and  spread  from  the  northern  hemisphere 
to  the  southern  seas.  Heathenism  shall  perish  before  it.  The 
limited  view  of  Cliristianity  which  missionaries  have  hitherto 
offered  to  the  heathen  may  fail;  but  my  universal  Church  will 
open  its  doors  to  all  tlie  world,  and — mark  my  words,  Conrad — 
all  the  world  will  enter  in.  I may  not  live  to  see  the  day;  my 
span  of  life  has  not  long  to  run;  but  that  day  will  come.” 

“ No  doubt,”  replied  Captain  Carmichael,  gravely.  “ There  is 
A slovenliness,  so  to  speak,  about  the  present  arrangement  of 


VIXEN. 


255 


tilings,  and  a great  deal  of  useless  expense;  every  small  town 
with  its  half  a dozen  ciiurchesand  chapels  of  different  denomina- 
tions— Episcopalians,  Wesleyans,  Baptists,  Roman  Catholics, 
Primitive  Methodists.  Now  on  your  plan  one  large  building 
would  do  for  all,  like  the  town-hall,  or  the  general  post-office. 
There  would  be  a wonderful  economy.” 

“ I fear  you  contemplate  the  question  from  an  entirely  tem- 
poral point  of  view,”  said  Miss  Skipwith,  flattered  but  yet  re- 
proachful. ‘‘  It  is  its  spiritual  aspect  that  is  grandest.” 

“ Naturally.  But  a man  of  the  world  is  apt  to  consider  the 
practicability  of  a scheme.  And  yours  seems  to  me  eminently 
practical.  If  you  can  only  get  the  Mohammedans  and  the 
Brahmins  to  come  in!  The  Roman  Catholics  might,  of  course, 
be  easily  won,  though  it  would  involve  doing  away  with  the 
Pope.  There  was  a prophesy,  by  the  way,  that  after  the  ninth 
Pius  there  would  be  only  eleven  more  popes.  No  doubt  that 
prophesy  pointed  at  your  universal  religion.  But  I fear  you  may 
have  some  difficulty  about  the  Buddhists.  I fancy  they  are 
rather  a bigoted  sect.” 

“ The  greatest  bigots  have  but  to  be  convinced,”  said  Miss 
Skipwitli.  “ St.  Paul  was  a bigot.” 

True.  Is  your  book  nearly  finished  ?” 

No.  There  are  still  some  3^ears  of  labor  before  me.  I am  now 
working  at  the  Swedenborgian  portion,  striving  to  demonstrate 
how  that  great  man’s  scheme  of  religion,  tliough  commonly  sup- 
posed to  be  a new  and  original  emanation  of  one  mind,  is  in  reality 
a reproduction  of  spiritual  views  involved  in  other  and  older  re- 
ligions. The  Buddhists  were  Swedenborgians  without  knowing 
it,  just  as  Swedenborg  Uxiconscioiisly  was  a Buddhist.” 

“ I begin  to  understand.  The  process  which  you  are  engaged 
in  is  a kind  of  spiritual  chemistry,  in  which  you  resolve  each 
particular  faith  into  its  primary  elements,  with  a view  to  prove 
that  those  elements  are  actually  the  same  in  all  creeds,  and  that 
the  differences  which  heretofore  have  kept  mankind  apart  are 
mere  divergencies  of  det  ffi.” 

“ That,  crudely  and  imperfectly  stated,  is  my  aim,”  replied 
Miss  Skipwith,  graciously. 

This  kind  of  conversation  continued  all  through  dinner.  Miss 
Skipwith  talked  of  Buddha,  and  Confucius,  and  Mohammed, 
and  Zuinglius,  and  Calvin,  and  Luther,  as  familiarly  as  if  they 
had  been  her  most  intimate  friends;  and  the  captain  led  her  on 
and  played  her  as  he  would  have  played  a trout  in  one  of  the 
winding  Hampshire  streams.  His  gravity  was  imperturbable. 
Vixen  sat  and  wondered  whether  she  was  to  hear  this  kind  of 
thing  every  day  of  her  life,  and  whether  she  would  be  expected 
to  ask  Miss  Skipwith  leading  questions,  as  the  captain  was  doing. 
It  was  all  very  well  for  him,  who  was  to  spend  only  one  day  at 
Les  Tourelles;  but  Vixen  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would 
boldly  avow  her  indilference  to  all  creeds  and  all  theologians, 
from  Confucius  to  Swedenborg.  She  might  consent  to  live  for 
a time  amidst  the  dullness  and  desolation  of  Les  Tourelles,  but 
she  would  not  be  weighed  down  and  crushed  by  Miss  Skipwith’s 
appalling  hobby.  The  mere  idea  of  the  horror  of  having  ev^ry 


m VIXEN. 

day  to  discuss  a subject  that  was  in  its  very  nature  inexhaust- 
ible, filled  her  with  terror. 

“I  would  sooner  take  my  meals  in  that  abandoned  kitchen, 
in  the  company  of  the  rats  and  beetles,  than  have  to  listen  every 
day  to  this  kind  of  thing,”  she  thought. 

When  dinner  was  over,  the  captain  went  off  to  smoke  his 
cigar  in  the  garden,  and  this  Vixen  thought  a good  time  for 
making  her  escape. 

“ I should  like  to  take  a walk  with  my  dog,  if  you  will  ex- 
cuse me,  Miss  Skipwiiib,”  she  said,  politely. 

“My  dear,  you  must  consider  yourself  at  liberty  to  employ 
and  amuse  yourself  as  you  please,  of  course  always  keeping 
strictly  within  the  bounds  of  propriety,”  solemnly  replied  the 
lady  of  the  manor.  “ I shall  not  interfere  with  your  freedom. 
My  own  studies  are  of  so  grave  a nature  that  they  in  a measure 
isolate  me  from  my  fellow-creatures,  but  when  you  require  and 
ask  for  sympathy  and  advice,  I shall  be  ready  to  give  both.  My 
library  is  at  your  service,  and  I hope  ere  long  you  will  have 
found  yourself  some  serious  aim  for  your  studies.  Life  without 
purpose  is  a life  hardly  worth  living.  If  girls  of  your  age  could 
only  find  that  out,  and  seek  their  vocation  early,  how  much 
grander  and  nobler  would  be  woman’s  place  in  the  universe! 
But,  alas!  my  dear,  the  common  aim  of  girlhood  seems  to  be 
to  look  pretty  and  to  get  married.” 

‘‘  I have  made  up  my  mind  never  to  marry,”  said  Violet,  with 
a smile  that  was  half  sad,  half  cynical;  “so  there,  at  least,  you 
may  approve  of  me,  Miss  Skipwith.” 

“ My  nephew  tells  me  that  you  refused  an  excellent  offer  from 
an  Irish  peer.” 

“ I would  not  have  done  the  Irish  peer  so  great  a wrong  as  to 
have  married  him  w ithout  loving  him.” 

“ I admire  your  honorable  feeling,”  said  Miss  Skipwith,  with 
solemn  approval;  “ I too  might  have  mamied,  but  the  man  to- 
ward whom  my  heart  most  inclined  was  a man  of  no  family.  I 
could  not  marry  a man  without  family.  I am  weak  enough  to 
be  prouder  of  my  pedigree  than  other  women  are  of  beauty  and 
fortune.  I am  the  last  of  the  Skipwiths,  and  I have  done  notli- 
ing  t(»  deg'  ade  my  race.  The  family  name  and  the  family  pride 
will  die  with  me.  There  was  a time  when  a Skipwith  owned  a 
third  of  the  island.  Our  estate  has  dwindled  to  the  garden  and 
meadows  that  surround  this  old  house;  our  family  has  shrunk 
into  one  old  woman;  but  if  I can  make  the  name  of  Skipwith 
famous  before  I go  down  to  my  grave,  I shall  not  have  lived  and 
labored  in  vain.” 

Vixen  felt  a thrill  of  pity  as  she  listened  to  this  brief  confession 
of  a self-deluded  solitary  soul,  wJiich  had  built  its  house  upon 
saiad  as  hopefully  as  if  the  foundations  were  solidest  rock.  The 
line  of  demarkation  between  such  fanaticism  as  Miss  Skipwith  s 
and  the  hallucination  of  an  old  lady  in  Bedlam,  who  fancies  her- 
self Queen  Victoria,  seemed  to  Vixen  but  a hair  s*breadth.  But, 
after  all,  if  the  old  lady  and  Miss  Skipwith  were  both  happy  in 
their  harmless  self-deceptions,  why  should  one  pity  them  ?"  The 


VIXEN. 


257 


creature  to  be  pitied  is  the  man  or  woman  who  keenly  sees  and 
feels  the  realities  of  life,  and  cannot  take  pleasure  in  phantoms- 

Vixen  ran  off  to  her  room  to  get  her  hat  and  gloves,  delighted 
to  find  herself  free.  Miss  Skip  with  was  not  such  a very  bad  sort 
ot  person,  after  all,  perhaps.  Liberty  to  roam  about  the  island 
with  her  dog.  Vixen  esteemed  a great  boon.  She  would  be  able 
to  think  about  lier  troubles,  unmolested  by  inquisitive  looks  or 
unwelcome  sympathy. 

She  went  down  to  the  court-yard,  untied  the  faithful  Argus, 
and  tliey  set  out  together  to  explore  the  unknown,  the  dog  in 
such  wild  spirits  that  it  was  almost  impossible  for  Vixen  to  be 
sad.  The  afternoon  sun  was  shining  in  all  his  glory,  birds  were 
singing,  flickering  lights  and  shadows  playing  on  the  grassy 
banks.  Argus  scampered  up  and  down  thiO  lanes,  and  burst 
tumultuously  through  gaps  in  the  hedges,  like  a dog  possessed  of 
demons. 

It  was  a pretty  little  island,  after  all;  Vixen  was  fain  to  admit 
as  much.  There  was  some  justification  for  the  people  who  sang 
its  praises  with  such  enthusiasm.  One  might  have  fancied  it  a 
fertile  corner  of  Devonshire  that  had  slipped  its  moorings  and 
drifted  westward  on  a summer  sea. 

“If  I had  Arion  here,  and — Eorie,  I think  I could  be  almost 
happy,’’  Vixen  said  to  herself,  with  a dreamy  smile. 

“ And  Eorie!” 

Alas,  poor  child!  faintly,  feebly  steadfast  in  the  barren  path 
of  honor:  where  could  she  not  have  been  happy  with  the  com- 
panion of  her  childhood,  the  one  only  love  of  her  youth?  Was 
there  ever  a spot  of  land  or  sea,  from  Hudson  Bay  to  the  un- 
mapped archipelago  or  hypothetical  continent  of  the  southern 
pole,  where  she  could  not  have  been  happy  v ith  Eoderick  Vaw- 
drey?  SI  le  thought  again  of  Helen  Eolleston  and  her  lover  on 
tiie  South  Sea  Island.  Ah,  what  a happy  fate  was  that  of  the 
consumptive  heroine!  Alone,  protected,  cherished,  and  saved 
from  death  by  her  devoted  lover. 

Poor  Eorie!  She  knew  how  well  she  loved  him,  now  that  the 
wide  sea  rolled  between  them,  now  that  she  had  said  him  nay, 
denied  her  love,  and  parted  from  him  forever. 

She  thought  of  that  scene  in  the  pine  v'ood,  dimly  lit  by  the 
young  moon.  She  lived  again  those  marvelous  moments — the 
concentrated  bliss  and  pain  of  a lifetime.  She  felt  again  the 
strong  grasp  of  his  bands,  his  breath  upon  her  cheek,  as  he  bent 
over  her  shoulder.  Again  she  heard  him  pleading  for  the  life- 
long union  her  soul  desired  as  the  most  exquisite  happiness  life 
could  give. 

“ 1 had  not  loved  thee,  dear,  so  well, 

Loved  I not  honor  more.” 

Those  two  familiar  lines  flashed  into  her  mind  as  she  thought 
of  her  lover.  To  have  degraded  herself,  to  have  dishonored  him  I 
No — it  would  have  been  too  dreadful.  Were  he  to  plead  again, 
she  must  answer  again  as  she  had  answered  before. 

“His  mother  despised  me,”  she  thought.  “If  people  in  a 
better  world  are  really  au  courantas  to  the  affairs  of  this,  I should 


258 


VIXEN. 


like  Lady  Jane  Vawdrey  to  know  that  I am  not  utterly  without 
the  instincts  of  a gentlewoman.’* 

She  wandered  on,  following  the  winding  of  the  lanes,  careless 
where  she  went,  and  determined  to  take  advantage  of  her  liberty. 
She  met  few  people,  and  of  those  she  did  not  trouble  herself  to 
ask  her  way. 

‘‘  If  I lose  myself  on  my  desert  island,  it  can’t  much  matter,’* 
she  thought.  ‘‘ There  is  no  one  to  be  anxious  about  me.  Miss 
Skipwith  v/ill  be  deep  in  her  universal  creed,  and  Captain  Car- 
michael would  be  very  glad  for  me  to  be  lost.  My  death  would 
leave  him  master  for  life  of  the  Abbey  House  and  all  belonging 
to  it.” 

She  roamed  on  till  she  came  to  the  open  seashore — a pretty 
little  harbor,  surrounded  with  quaint-looking  houses;  two  or 
three  white  villas  in  fertile  gardens,  on  a raised  road;  and,  domi- 
nating all  the  scene,  a fine  old  feudal  castle,  with  keep,  battle- 
ments, draw-bridge,  portcullis,  and  all  that  becomes  a fortress. 

This  was  Mount  Orgueil,  the  castle  in  which  Charles  Stuart 
Bpent  a short  period  of  his  life,  while  Cromwell  was  ruling  by 
land  and  sea,  and  kingly  hopes  were  at  their  lowest  ebb.  The 
good  old  fortress  had  suffered  for  its  loyalty,  for  the  Farliarhent 
sent  Admiral  Blake,  with  a fleet,  to  reduce  the  rebellious  island 
to  submission,  and  Mount  Orgueil  had  not  been  strong  enough 
to  hold  out  against  its  assailants. 

Violet  wtmt  up  the  sloping  path  that  led  to  the  grim  old  gate- 
v/ay  under  the  gloomy  arch,  and  still  upward  till  she  came  to  a 
sunny  battlemented  wall  above  the  shining  sea.  The  prospect 
was  more  than  worth  the  trouble.  Yonder,  in  the  dim  distance, 
were  the  towers  of  Coutance  Cathedral;  far  away,  mere  spots 
in  the  blue  w^ater,  were  the  smaller  fry  of  the  Channel  Islands; 
below  her  the  yellow  sands  were  smiling  in  the  sun,  the  placid 
wavelets  reflecting  all  the  color  and  glory  of  the  changeful  sky, 

“ This  would  not  be  a bad  place  to  live  in,  Argus,  if ” 

She  paused  with  her  arm  round  her  dog’s  neck,  as  he  stood  on 
end,  looking  over  the  parapet,  with  a deep  interest  in  possible 
rats  or  rabbits  lurking  in  some  cavity  of  the  craggy  cliff  below. 
If!  Ah,  what  a big  “if”  that  was!  It  meant  love  and  dear 
familiar  companionship.  It  meant  all  Vixen’s  little  world. 

She  lingered  long.  The  scene  was  beautiful,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  lure  her  home.  Then,  at  last,  feeling  that  she  was 
treating  poor  Miss  Skipwith  badly,  and  that  her  prolonged  ab- 
sence might  give  alarm  in  that  dreary  liousehold,  she  retraced 
her  steps,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  craggy  mount  asked  the  nearest 
way  to  Les  Toureiles. 

The  nearest  way  was  altogether  different  from  the  track  by 
which  she  had  come,  and  brought  her  back  to  the  old  monastic 
gate  in  a little  more  than  an  hour.  She  opened  the  gate  and 
went  in.  There  was  nothing  for  the  most  burglarious  invader 
to  steal  at  Les  Toureiles,  and  bolts  and  locks  were  rarely  used. 
Miss  Skipwith  was  reading  in  her  parlor,  a white  Persian  cat 
dozing  on  a cushioned  arm-chair  beside  her,  some  cups  and 
saucers  and  a black  tea-pot  on  a tray  befoi-e  her,  and  the  rest  of 


VIXEN.  259 

the  table  piled  with  books.  There  was  no  sign  of  Captain  Car- 
michael. 

“ I’m  afraid  I’m  rather  late,”  Vixen  said,  apologetically. 

She  felt  a kind  of  half-pitying  respect  for  Miss  Skip  with,  as  a 
harmless  lunatic. 

“ My  dear,  I dare  say  that  as  an  absolute  fact  you  are  late,” 
answered  the  lady  of  the  manor,  without  looking  up  from  her 
book,  “ but  as  time  is  never  too  kmg  for  me,  I have  been  hardly 
conscious  of  the  delay.  Your  step-father  has  gone  down  to  the 
club  at  St.  Helier’s  to'  see  some  of  his  old  acquaintances.  Per- 
lians  you  would  like  a cup  of  tea?” 

Vixen  replied  that  she  would  very  much  like  some  tea,  where- 
upon Miss  Skinwith  poured  out  a weak  and  tepid  infusion,  against 
which  the  girl  inwardly  protested. 

“ If  I am  to  exist  at  Les  Tourelles,  I must  at  least  have  decent 
tea,”  she  said  to  herself.  “ I must  buy  an  occasional  pound  for 
my  own  consumption,  make  friends  with  Mrs.  Doddery,  and  get 
her  to  brew  it  for  me.” 

And  then  Vixen  knelt  down  by  the  arm-chair,  and  tried  to 
get  upon  intimate  terms  with  the  Persian.  He  was  a serious- 
minded  animal,  and  seemed  inclined  to  resent  her  advances:  so 
«he  left  him  in  peace  on  his  patchwork  cushion— a relic  of  these 
earlier  days  vhen  Miss  Skipwith  had  squandered  her  precious 
hours  on  the  feminine  inanity  of  needle- work. 

Vixen  thought  of  the  German  VolksUed,  as  she  looked  at  the 
old  lady  in  the  black  cap,  bending  over  a ponderous  volume, 
with  the  solemn-visaged  cat  coiled  on  the  chair  beside  her. 

“ Minerva’s  Vogel  war  ein  Kauz,” 

The  Persian  cat  seemed  as  much  an  attribute  of  the  female 
theologian  as  the  bird  of  the  goddess. 

Vixen  went  to  her  room  scon  after  dark,  and  thus  avoided 
the  captain,  who  did  not  return  till  ten.  She  was  worn  out 
wutli  the  fatigue  of  the  voyage,  her  long  ramble,  the  painful 
thoughts  and  manifold  agitations  of  the  last  two  days.  She  set 
her  candle  on  the  dressing-table,  and  looked  round  the  bare 
empty  room,  feeling  as  if  she  were  in  a dream.  It  was  all 
strange,  and  un homely,  and  comfortless — like  one  of  those 
wild  dream-pictures  which  seem  so  appallingly  real  in  their 
hideous  unreality. 

“ And  I am  to  live  here  indefinitely — for  the  next  six  years, 
perhaps,  until  I come  of  age  and  am  my  own  mistress!'  It  is 
too  dreadful.” 

She  went  to  bed  and  slept  a deep  and  comforting  sleep,  for 
very  weariness:  and  she  dreamed  that  she  was  w’alking  on  the 
battlements  of  Mount  Orgueil,  in  the  drowsy  afternoon  sunlight, 
with  Charles  Stuart;  and  the  face  of  the  royal  exile  was  the 
face  of  Roderick  Vawdrey,  and  the  hand  that  held  hers  as  they 
two  stood  side  by  side  in  the  sunshine  was  the  broad  strong 
hand  of  her  girlhood's  friend. 

When  she  went  down-stairs  between  eiglit  and  nine  next 
morning  she  found  Miss  Skipwith  pacing  slowly  to  and  fro  the 


260 


VIXEN. 


terrace  in  front  of  the  drawing-room  windows,  conning  over 
the  pencil  notes  of  her  yesterday’s  studies. 

“ Your  step-father  has  been  gone  half  an  hour,  my  dear,”  said 
the  lady  of  the  manor.  “ He  was  very  sorry  to  have  to  go  with- 
out wishing  you  good-bye.” 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

CHIEFLY  FINANCIAL. 

Violet  was  gone.  Her  rooms  were  empfcy;  her  faithful  little 
waiting-maid  was  dismissed;  her  dog’s  deep-toned  thunder  no 
longer  sounded  through  the  house,  bajdng  joyous  welcome  when 
his  mistress  came  down  for  her  early  morning  ramble  in  the 
shrubberies.  Arion  had  been  sent  to  grass,  and  was  running 
wild  in  fertile  pastures,  shoeless  and  unfettered  as  tl'.e  Soutli 
American  mustang  on  his  native  prairie.  Notliing  associated 
with  the  exiled  heiress  was  left,  except  the  rooms  she  had 
inhabited;  and  even  they  looked  blank  and  empty  and  strange 
without  her.  It  was  almost  as  if  a whole  family  had  departed. 
Vixen’s  presence  seemed  to  have  tilled  the  house  with  youth  and 
freshness,  and  free,  joyous  life.  Without  her  all  was  silent  as 
the  grave. 

Mrs.  Carmichael  missed  her  daughter  sorely.  She  had  been 
wont  to  complain  fretfully  of  the  girl's  exuberance;  but  the  blank 
her  absence  made  struck  a chill  to  the  mother’s  heart.  She  had 
fancied  that  life  would  be  easier  without  Violet;  that  her  union 
with  her  husband  would  be  more  complete;  and  now  she  found 
herself  looking  wistfully  toward  the  door  of  her  morning- room, 
listening  vaguely  for  a footstep;  and  the  figure  she  looked  for  at 
the  door,  and  the  footsteps  she  listened  for  in  the  corridor  were 
not  Conrad  Carmichael’s.  It  was  the  buoyant  step  of  her  daugh- 
ter she  missed ; it  wai:  Che  bright,  frank  face  of  her  daughter  she 
yearned  for. 

One  day  the  captain  surprised  her  in  tears,  and  asked  the  rea- 
son of  her  melancholy. 

“ I dare  say  it’s  very  weak  of  me,  Conrad,”  she  said,  piteously; 
‘‘  but  I miss  Violet  more  and  more  every  day.” 

“ It  is  uncommonly  weak  of  you,”  answered  the  captain,  with 
agreeable  candor;  ‘‘  but  I suppose  it’s  natural.  People  generally 
get  attached  to  their  worries;  and  as  your  daughter  was  an  in- 
cessant  worry,  you  very  naturally  lament  her  absence.  I am 
honest  enough  to  confess  that  I am  very  glad  she  is  gone.  We 
had  no  domestic  peace  while  she  was  with  us.’’ 

“ But  she  is  not  to  stay  away  forever,  Conrad.  I cannot  be 
separated  from  my  only  daughter  forever.  That  would  be  too 
dreadful.” 

“‘Forever*  is  a long  word,”  answered  the  captain,  coolly. 
“ She  will  come  back  to  us — of  course.’* 

“When,  dear?” 

“When  she  is  older  and  wiser.” 

This  was  cold  comfort.  Mrs.  Carmichael  dried  her  tears,  and 
resumed  her  crewel- work.  The  interesting  variety  of  shades  in 
green  which  modern  art  has  discovered  were  a source  of  comfort 


VIXEN, 


2G1 


to  the  mother’s  troubled  mind.  Moved  to  emulation  by  the  re- 
sults that  had  been  achieved  in  artistic  needle- work  by  the  school 
at  South  Kensington  and  the  Royal  Tapestry  Manufactory  at 
Windsor,  Pamelia  found  in  lier  crewel -work  an  all-absorbing 
labor.  Matilda  of  Normandy  could  hardly  have  toiled  more  in- 
dustriously at  the  Bayeux  tapestry  than  did  Mrs.  Carmichael,  in 
the  effort  to  immortalize  the  fleeting  glories  of  woodland  blos- 
som or  costly  orchid  upon  kitchen  toweling. 

It  was  a dull  and  lonely  life  which  the  mistress  of  the  Abbey 
House  led  in  these  latter  days  of  glowing  summer  weather;  and 
perhaps  it  was  only  the  distractions  of  crewels  and  point-lace 
which  preserved  her  from  melancholy  madness.  The  captain 
had  been  too  long  a baclielor  to  renounce  the  agreeable  habits  of 
a bachelor’s  existence.  His  amusements  were  all  masculine,  and 
more  or  less  solitary.  When  there  was  no  hunting,  he  gave  him- 
self up  to  fishing,  and  found  his  chief  delight  in  the  persecution 
of  innocent  salmon.  He  supplied  the  Abbey  House  larder  with 
fish,  sent  an  occasional  basket  to  a friend,  and  dispatched  the 
surplus  produce  of  his  rod  to  a fish-monger  in  London.  He  was 
an  enthusiast  at  billiards,  and  would  play  with  innocent  Mr. 
Scobel  rather  than  not  play  at  all.  He  read  every  newspaper 
and  periodical  of  mark  that  was  published.  He  rode  a good  deal, 
and  drove  not  a little  in  a high- wheeled  dog-cart — quite  an  im- 
possible vehicle  for  a lady.  He  transacted  all  the  business  of 
house,  stable,  gardens,  and  home-farm,  and  that  in  the  most 
precise  and  punctual  manner.  He  wrote  a good  many  letters, 
and  he  smoked  six  or  seven  cigars  every  day.  It  must  be  obvious, 
therefore,  that  he  had  very  little  time  to  devote  to  his  pretty 
ndddle-aged  wife,  vyhose  languid  airs  and  vaporish  graces  were 
likely  to  pall  upon  an  ardent  temper  after  a year  of  married  life. 
Yet,  thougli  she  found  her  days  lonely,  Mrs.  Carmichael  had  no 
ground  for  complaint.  What  fault  could  a woman  find  in  a 
husband  who  was  always  courteous  and  complimentary  in  his 
speech,  whos<}  domestic  tastes  were  obvious,  who  thought  it  no 
trouble  to  supervise  the  smallest  details  of  the  ^household,  who 
could  order  a dinner,  lay  out  a garden,  stock  a conservatory,  or 
amend  the  sanitary  arrangements  of  a stable  with  equal  clever- 
ness; who  never  neglected  a duty  toward  wife  or  society? 

Mrs.  Carmichael  could  see  no  flaw  in  the  perfection  of  her 
husband’s  character;  but  it  began  about  this  time  slowly  to  dawn 
upon  her  languid  soul  that,  as  Captain  Carmichael's  wife,  she 
w^as  not  so  happy  as  she  had  been  as  Squire  Tempest’s  widow. 

Her  independence  was  gone  utterly.  She  awoke  slowly  to  the 
comprehension  of  that  fact.  Her  individuality  was  blotted  out, 
or  absorbed  into  her  husband’s  being.  She  had  no  more  powe^ 
or  influence  in  her  own  house  than  tlie  lowest  scullion  in  he? 
kitchen.  She  had  given  up  her  banking  account,  and  the  receipt 
of  her  rents,  which  in  the  days  of  her  widowhood  had  been  re^ 
mitted  to  her  half-yearly  by  the  solicitor  who  collected  them. 
Captain  Carmichael  had  taken  upon  himself  th(^  stewardship  of 
bis  wife’s  income.  She  had  been  inclined  to  cling  to  her  check- 
book and  her  banking  account  at  Southampton;  but  the  captain 
iad  persuaded  her  of  the  folly  of  such  an  arrangement. 


262 


VIXEN. 


« Why  two  balances  and  two  accounts,  when  one  will  do  T he 
argued.  “ You  have  only  to  ask  me  for  a check  when  you  want 
it,  or  to  give  me  your  bills.” 

Whereupon  the  bride  of  six  weeks  had  yielded  graciously,  and 
the  balance  had  been  transferred  from  the  Southampton  bank 
to  Captain  Carmichaers  account  at  the  Union. 

But  now,  with  Theodore’s  unsettled  account  of  four  years’ 
standing  hanging  over  her  head  by  the  single  hair  of  the  pen- 
ny-post, and  likely  to  descend  upon  her  any  morning,  Mrs.  Car- 
michael regretted  her  surrendered  banking  account,  with  its 
balance  of  eleven  hundred  pounds  or  so.  The  captain  had  man- 
aged everything  with  wondrous  wisdom,  no  doubt.  He  had 
done  away  with  all  long  credits.  He  paid  all  his  bills  on  ti’.e 
first  Saturday  in  ihe  month,  save  such  as  could  be  paid  weekly. 
He  had  reduce<l  the  price  of  almost  everything  supplied  to  the 
Abbey  House,  from  the  stable  provender  to  the  wax-candies  that 
lighted  the  faded  sea-green  draperies  and  white  paneling  of  the 
drawing-room.  The  only  expenditure  over  which  he  had  no 
control  was  his  wife’s  private  disbursement;  but  he  had  a habit 
of  looking  surprised  when  she  asked  him  for  a check,  and  a 
business-like  way  of  asking  the  amount  required  which  pre- 
vented her  a.pplying  to  him  often.  Still,  there  was  that  long- 
standing account  of  Madame  Theodore’s  in  the  background,  and 
Mrs.  Carmichael  felt  that  it  was  an  account  which  must  be  set- 
tled sooner  or  later.  Her  disinclination  to  ask  her  husband  fcr 
money  had  tended  to  swell  Theodore’s  bill.  She  had  bought 
gloves,  ribbons,  shoes,  everything,  from  that  tasteful  purveyor, 
and  had  even  obtained  the  somewhat  expensive  material  for  her 
fancy  work  through  Madame  Theodore;  a temporary  conven- 
ience which  she  could  hardly  hope  to  enjoy  gratis. 

Like  all  weak  women,  she  had  her  occasional  longings  for  in- 
dependence, her  moments  of  inward  revolt  against  toe  smooth 
tyrant.  The  income  was  hors,  she  argued  wuth  herself  some- 
times, and  she  had  a right  to  spend  her  own  money  as  she 
pleased.  But  then  she  recalled  her  husband’s  grave  warnings 
about  the  future  and  its  insecurity.  She  had  but  a brief  lease  of 
her  present  wealth,  and  he  was  laboring  to  lay  by  a provision 
for  the  days  to  come. 

“ It  would  be  wucked  of  me  to  thwart  him  in  such  a wise  pur- 
pose,” she  told  herself. 

The  restriction  of  her  charities  pained  the  soft-hearted  Pamela 
not  a little.  To  give  to  all  w^ho  asked  her  had  been  the  one  un- 
selfish pleasure  of  her  narrow  soul.  She  had  been  imposed  upon, 
of  course;  had  fed  families  whose  fathers  squandered  their 
weekly  wages  in  the  cozy  tap-room  of  a village  iun;  had  in  some- 
wise encouraged  idleness  and  improvident  living;  but  she  had 
been  the  comforter  of  many  a weaiy  heart,  the  benefactor  of 
many  a patient  care-oppressed  mother,  the  raiser-up  of  many  a 
sickly  child  drooping  on  its  bed  of  pain. 

Now,  under  the  captain’s  rule,  she  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
her  name  honorably  recorded  in  the  subscription  list  of  every 
local  charity;  but  her  hand  was  no  longer  open  to  the  surround- 
ing poor,  her  good  old  Saxon  name  of  Lady  had  lost  its  ancient 


VIXEN. 


2G3 


significancp-  Sbe  was  no  longer  the  giver  of  bread  to  the 
hungry.  She  siglied  and  submitted,  acknowledging  her  hus- 
band’s superior  wisdom. 

“You  would  not  like  to  live  in  a semi-detached  villa  on  the 
Southampton  Road,  would  you,  my  dear  Pamela?”  asked  tlio 
captain. 

“ I might  die  in  a semi-detached  house,  Conrad.  I’m  sure  I 
could  not  live  in  one,”  she  exclaimed,  piteously. 

“Then,  my  love,  we  must  make  a tremendous  effort  and  save 
all  we  can  before  your  daughter  comes  of  age,  or  else  we  shall 
assuredly  have  to  leave  the  Abbey  House.  We  might  go  abroad 
certainly,  and  live  at  Dinan,  or  some  quiet  old  French  towi^ 
where  provisions  are  cheap.” 

“ My  dear  Conrad.  I could  net  exist  in  one  of  those  old  French 
towns,  smelling  perpetually  of  cabbage-soup.” 

“Then,  my  dear  love,  we  must  exercise  the  strictest  economy, 
or  life  will  be  impossible  six  years  hence.” 

Pamela  siglied  and  assented,  with  a sinking  of  her  heart.  To* 
her  mind  this  word  economy  was  absolutely  the  most  odious  in 
the  English  language.  Pier  life  was  made  up  of  trifles;  and 
they  were  all  expensive  trifles.  She  liked  to  be  better  dressed 
than  any  woman  of  her  acquaintance.  She  liked  to  surround 
herself  with  pretty  things;  and  the  prettincss  must  take  the 
most  fashionable  form,  and  be  frequently  renewed.  She  had 
dim  ideas  which  she  considered  aesthetic,  and  which  involved 
a good  deal  cf  shifting  and  improving  of  furniture. 

Against  all  these  expensive  follies  Captain  Carmichael  set  his 
face  sternly,  using  pretty  words  to  his  wife  at  all  times,  but  prov- 
ing himself  as  hard  as  rock  when  she  tried  to  bend  him  to  her 
will.  He  had  not  yet  interfered  with  her  toilet,  for  he  had  jet 
to  learn  what  that  cost. 

This  knowledge  came  upon  him  like  a thunder-clap  one  sultry 
morning  in  July — real  thunder  impending  in  the  metallic-tinted 
sky — about  a month  after  Vixen’s  departure. 

Theodore’s  long-expected  bill  was  among  the  letters  in  the 
morning’s  bag — a bulky  envelope  which  the  captain  handed  to 
his  wife  with  his  usual  politeness.  He  never  opened  her  letters, 
but  he  invariably  asked  to  see  them,  and  she  always  handed  hel 
correspondence  over  to  him  with  a child -like  meekness.  To-day 
she  was  slow  to  hand  the  captain  her  letter.  She  sat  looking  at 
the  long  list  of  items  with  a clouded  brow,  and  forgot  to  pour 
out  her  liusband's  coffee  in  the  abstraction  of  a troubled  mind. 

“Pm  afraid  your  letters  of  this  morning  are  nf)t  of  a very  pleas- 
ant character,  my  love,”  said  the  captain,  watchful  of  his  wife’s 
clouded  countenance.  “ Is  that  a bill  you  are  examining?  1 
thought  we  paid  rea.dy  money  for  everything.” 

“It  is  ray  dress-maker’s  bill,”  faltered  Mrs.  Carmichael. 

“A  dress- maker's  bill!  That  can't  be  very  alarming.  You 
look  as  awful,  and  the  document  looks  as  voluminous,  as  if  it 
Were  a lawyer’s  bill,  including  the  costs  of  two  or  three  unlucky 
Chancery  suits,  or  half  a dozen  conveyances.  Let  me  have  the 
account,  dear,  and  I’ll  send  your  dress-maker  a check  next 
Saturday.” 


264  VIXEN. 

He  held  out  his  hand  for  the  paper,  but  Pamela  did  not  give 
it  to  him. 

“I’m  afraid  you‘11  think  it  awfully  high,  Conrad,”  she  said,  in 
a deprecating  tone.  “ You  see  it  has  been  running  a long  time 
— since  tlie  Christmas  before  dear  Edward’s  death,  in  fact.  I 
have  paid  Theodore  sums  on  account  in  the  meanwhile,  but 
those  seem  to  go  for  very  little  against  the  total  of  her  bill.  She 
is  expensive,  of  course.  All  the  West  End  milliners  are;  but 
her  style  is  undeniable,  and  she  is  in  direct  association  with 
Worth.” 

“My  dear  Pamela,  I did  not  ask  you  for  her  biography,  I 
asked  only  for  her  bill.  Pray  let  me  see  the  total,  and  tell  me  if 
you  have  any  objections  to  make  against  the  items.  ’ 

“No,”  sighed  Mrs.  Carmichael,  bending  over  the  document 
with  a perplexed  brow,  “I  believe — indeed,  I am  sure — I have 
had  all  the  things.  Many  of  them  are  dearer  than  I expected; 
but  there  is  no  rule  as  to  the  price  of  anything  thoroughly  Paris- 
ian, that  has  not  been  seen  in  London.  Ore  has  to  pay  for  style 
and  originality.  I hope  you  won’t  be  vexed  at  having  to  write 
so  large  a check,  Conrad,  at  a time  v/hen  you  are  so  anxious  to 
save  money.  Next  year  I shall  try  my  best  to  economize.” 

“My  dearest  Pamela,  why  beat  about  the  bush?  The  bill 
must  be  paid,  whatever  the  amount.  I suppose  a hundred 
pounds  v.dll  cover  it  ?” 

“ Oh,  Conrad,  when  many  women  give  a hundred  pounds  for 
a single  dress!” 

“ When  they  do  I should  say  that  Bedlam  must  be  their  nat- 
ural and  fitting  abode,”  retorted  the  captain,  with  suppressed 
ire.  “The  bill  is  more  than  a hundred,  then  ? Pray  give  it  me, 
Pamela,  and  make  an  end  of  this  foolishness.” 

This  time  Captain  Carmichael  went  over  to  his  wife,  and  look 
the  paper  out  of  her  hand.  He  had  not  seen  the  total,  but  he 
was  white  with  rage  already.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
squeeze  a small  fortune  out  of  the  Abbey  House  estate  during  his 
brief  lease  of  the  property;  and  here  was  this  foolish  wife  of  his 
squandering  hundreds  upon  finery. 

“ Be  kind  enough  to  pour  me  out  a cud  of  coffee,”  he  said, 
resuming  his  seat,  and  deliberately  spreading  out  the  bill. 

“ Great  Heaven!”  he  cried,  after  a ghjnce  at  the  total.  “ This 
is  too  preposterous.  The  woman  must  be  mad.” 

The  total  was  seventeen  hundred  and  sixty-four  pounds  four- 
teen and  sixpence.  Mrs.  Carmichael’s  payments  on  account 
amounted  to  four  hundred  pounds;  leaving  a balance  of  thiHeen 
hundred  and  sixty-four  pounds  for  the  captain  to  liquidate. 

“ Indeed,  dear  Conrad,  it  is  not  such  a very  tremendous  ac- 
count,” pleaded  Pamela,  appalled  by  the  expression  of  her  hus- 
band’s face.  “Theodore  has  customers  wlio  spend  two  thou- 
sand a year  with  her.” 

“Very  laudable  extravagance,  if  they  are  wives  of  million- 
aires, and  liave  their  silver-mines,  or  cotton-mills  to  maintain 
them.  But  that  the  widow  of  a Hampshire  squire,  a lady  who 
six  years  hence  will  have  to  exist  upon  a pittance,  should  run 
up  such  a bill  as  this  is  to  my  mind  an  act  of  folly  that  is  almost 


VIXEN. 


26.- 


criminal.  From  this  moment  I abandon  all  my  ideas  of  nursing 
your  estate,  of  providing  comfortably  for  our  future.  Hence- 
forward we  must  drift  toward  insolvency,  like  other  people.  It 
would  be  more  than  useless  for  me  to  go  on  racking  my  brains 
in  the  endeavor  to  secure  a given  result,  when  behind  my  back 
your  thoughtless  extravagance  is  stultifying  all  my  efforts.” 

Here  Mrs,  Carmichael  dissolved  into  tears. 

“Oh,  Conrad!  How  can  you  say  such  cruel  things?”  she 
sobbed.  “ I go  behind  your  back!  I stultify  you!  When  I 
have  allowed  myself  to  be  ruled  and  governed  in  everything! 
When  I have  even  parted  with  my  only  cluld  to  please  you!” 

“ Not  till  your  only  child  had  tried  to  set  the  house  on 
fire.” 

“Indeed,  Conrad,  you  are  mistaken  there.  She  never  meant 

it.” 

“ I know  nothing  about  her  meaning,”  said  the  captain,  mood- 
ily. “ She  did  it.” 

“ It  is  too  cruel,  after  all  my  sacrifices,  that  I should  be  called 
extravagant — and  foolish — and  criminal.  I have  only  dressed 
as  a lady  ought  to  dress — out  of  mere  self-respect.  Dear  Ed- 
ward always  liked  to  see  me  look  nice.  He  never  said  an  un- 
kind word  about  my  bills.  It  is  a sad — sad  change  for  me.” 

“ Your  future  will  be  a sadder  change,  if  you  go  on  in  the 
way  you  are  going,”  retorted  the  captain.  “ Let  me  see:  your 
income,  after  Violet  comes  of  age,  is  to  fifteen  hundred  a year. 
You  have  been  spending  six  hundred  a year  upon  millinery. 
That  leaves  nine  hundred  for  everything  else — stable,  garden, 
coals,  taxes,  servants’  wages,  wine — to  say  nothing  of  such  trifl- 
ing claims  as  butcher  and  baker,  and  the  rest  of  it.  You  will 
have  to  manage  with  wonderful  cleverness  to  make  both  ends 
meet.” 

“I  am  sure  I would  sacrifice  anything  rather  than  live  un- 
happily with  you,  Conrad,”  Mrs.  Carmichael  murmured,  pite- 
ously, drinking  much  strong  tea  in  her  agitation,  the  cup  shaking 
in  her  poor  little  white,  weak  hand.  “Nothing  could  be  so 
dreadful  to  me  as  to  live  on  bad  terms  with  you.  I have  sur- 
rendered so  much  for  your  love,  Conrad.  What  would  become 
of  me,  if  I lost  that  ? I will  give  up  dealing  with  Theodore,  if 
you  like — ^though  it  will  be  a hard  trial,  after  she  has  worked 
for  me  so  many  years,  and  has  studied  my  style  and  knows  ex- 
actly what  suits  me.  I will  dress  ever  so  plainly,  and  even  have 
mv  gowns  made  bv  a Southampton  dress-maker,  though  th  >ti 
will  be  too  dreadful.  You  will  hardly  recognize  me.  But  I 
will  do  anything — anything,  Conrad,  rather  than  hear  you 
speak  so  cruelly.” 

She  went  over  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  tremulously  on  his 
shoulder,  and  looked  down  at  him  wnth  piteous,  pleading  eyes. 
No  Circassian  slave,  afraid  of  bowstring  and  sack,  could  Imve 
entreated  her  master’s  clemency  with  deeper  self-abasement. 

Even  Conrad  Carmichael’s  hard  nature  was  touched  by  the 
piteoueness  of  her  look  and  tone.  He  took  the  hand  gently  and 
raised  it  to  his  lips. 

“I  don’t  mean  to  be  cruel,  Pamela,”  he  said.  “ I only  want 


266 


VIXEN. 


YOU  to  face  the  truth,  and  to  understand  your  future  position. 
It  is  your  own  money  you  are  squandering,  and  you  have  a riglit 
to  waste  it,  if  it  pleases  you  to  do  so.  But  it  is  a little  hard  for 
a man  who  has  labored  and  schemed  for  a given  result,  suddenly 
to-  find  himself  out  in  his  calculations  by  so  much  as  thirteen 
hundred  and  sixty-four  pounds.  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it, 
my  dear.  Here  is  the  bill,  and  it  must  be  paid.  We  have  only 
to  consider  the  items,  and  see  if  the  prices  are  reasonable.” 

And  then  the  captain,  with  bent  brow  and  serious  aspect,  be- 
gan to  read  the  lengthy  record  of  an  English  lady’s  folly.  Most 
of  the  items  he  passed  over  in  silence,  or  with  only  a sigh,  keep- 
ing his  wife  by  his  side,  looking  over  his  shoulder. 

“ Point  out  anything  that  is  wrong,”  he  said;  but  as  yet  Mrs. 
Carmichael  had  found  no  error  in  the  bill. 

Sometimes  there  came  an  item  which  moved  the  captain  to 
speech.  “ ‘A  dinner-dress,  pain  brule  brocade,  mixed  powZf  de 
soie,  manteaii  de  cour,  lined  ivory  satin,  trimmed  with  hand- 
worked embroidery  of  wild  flowers  on  Brussels  net,  sixty -three 
pounds.’ 

“ What  in  the  name  of  all  that’s  reasonable  is  pain  hmle 
asked  the  captain,  impatiently. 

“It’s  the  color,  Conrad.  One  of  those  delicate  tertiaries  that 
have  been  so  much  worn  lately.” 

“Sixty  guineas  for  a dinner-dress!  That’s  rather  stiff.  Do 
you  know  that  a suit  of  dress-clothes  costs  me  nine  pounds,  and 
lasts  almost  as  many  years 

“ My  dear  Conrad,  for  a man  it  is  so  different.  No  one  looks 
at  your  clothes.  That  dress  was  for  Lady  Ellangowan’s  dinner. 
You  made  me  very  happy  that  night,  for  you  told  me  I was  the 
best-dressed  woman  in  the  room.” 

“ I should  not  have  been  very  happy  myself  if  I had  known 
the  cost  of  your  gown,”  answered  the  captain,  grimly.  “Fifteen 
guineas  for  a Honiton  he  cried,  presently.  “What  in 

mercy’s  name  is  sl  fichu  9 It  sounds  like  a sneeze.” 

“ It  is  a little  half-handkerchief  that  I wear  to  brighten  a dark 
silk  dress  when  we  dine  alone,  Conrad.  You  know  you  have 
always  said  that  lace  harmonizes  a woman’s  dress,  and  gives  a 
softness  to  the  complexion  and  contour.” 

“ I shall  be  very  careful  what  I say  in  future,”  muttered  the 
captain,  as  he  went  on  with  the  bill.  “French  cambric p6^g}^o^>, 
trimmed  real  Valenciennes,  turquoise  ribbon,  nineteen  guineas,” 
he  read  presently.  “ Surely  you  would  never  give  twenty 
pounds  for  a gown  you  wear  when  you  are  having  your  hair 
dressed  ?” 

“ That  is  only  the  name,  dear.  It  is  really  a breakfast-dress. 
You  know  you  always  like  to  see  me  in  white  of  a morning.” 

The  captain  groaned,  and  said  nothing. 

“ Come,”  he  said,  by  and  by,  “this  surely  must  be  a mistake. 
* Shooting  dress,  superfine  silk  corduroy,  trimmed  and  lined  with 
cardinal  poult  de  soie,  oxydized  silver  buttons,  engraved  hunt- 
ing subjects,  twenty-seven  guineas.’  Thank  Heaven,  you  are 
not  one  of  those  masculine  women  who  go  out  shooting,  and 
jump  over  five  barred  gates,” 


VIXEN. 


267 


The  dress  is  quite  right,  dear,  though  T don’t  shoot.  Theo- 
dore sent  it  to  me  for  a walking-dress,  and  I have  worn  it  often 
when  we  have  walked  in  the  Forest.  You  thought  it  very  stylish 
and  becoming,  though  just  a little  fast.” 

“ I see,”  said  the  captain,  with  a weary  air,  “your  not  shoot- 
ing does  not  hinder  your  iiaving  shooting-dresses.  Are  there  any 
fishing- costumes  or  riding-liabits  in  the  bill?” 

“No,  dear.  It  was  Theodore’s  own  idea  to  send  me  the 
corduroy  dress.  She  thought  it  so  new  and  recherche,  and  even 
the  duchess  admired  it.  Mine  was  the  first  she  had  ever  seen.” 

“ That  was  a triumph  worth  twenty-seven  guineas,  no  doubt,” 
sighed  the  captain.  “ Well,  T suppose  there  is  no  more  to  be 
said.  The  bill  to  me  appears  iniquitous.  If  you  were  a duchess 
or  a millionaire’s  wife,  of  course  it  would  be  different.  Such 
women  have  a right  to  spend  all  they  can  upon  dress.  They 
encourage  trade.  I am  no  Puritan.  But  when  a.  vroman  dresses 
beyond  her  means — above  her  social  position — I regret  the  wise 
old  sumptuary  laws  which  regulated  these  things  in  the  days 
when  a fur  coat  was  a sign  of  nobility.  If  you  only  knew, 
Pamela,  how  useless  this  expensive  finery  is,  how  little  it  adds 
to  your  social  status,  how  little  it  enhances  your  beauty!  Why, 
the  finest  gown  this  Madame  Theodore  ever  made  cannot  hide 
one  of  your  wrinkles.” 

“My  wrinklesi”  cried  Pamela,  sorely  wounded.  “That  is  the 
first  time  I ever  heard  of  them.  To  think  that  my  husband 
should  be  the  first  to  tell  me  I am  getting  an  old  woman!  But 
I forgot,  you  are  younger  than  I,  and  I dare  say  in  your  eyes  I 
seem  quite  old.” 

“ My  dear  Pamela,  be  reasonable.  Can  a woman’s  forehead  at 
forty  be  quite  as  smooth  as  it  was  at  twenty?  However  hand- 
some a woman  is  at  that  age — and  to  my  mind  it  is  almost  the 
best  age  for  beauty,  just  as  the  ripe,  rich  coloring  of  a peach  is 
lovelier  than  tiie  poor,  little,  pale  blossom  that  preceded  it — 
however  attractive  a middle-aged  woman  may  be,  there  must  be 
some  traces  to  show  that  she  has  lived  half  her  life;  and  to 
suppose  theitpain  bride  brocade  and  hand- worked  embroidery  can 
obliterate  those,  is  extreme  folly.  Dress  in  rich  and  dark 
velvets,  and  old  point -lace  that  has  been  twenty  years  in  your 
possession,  and  you  will  be  as  beautiful  and  as  interesting  as  a 
portrait  by  one  of  the  old  Venetian  masters.  Can  Theodore's 
highest  art  make  you  better  than  that?  Eemember  that 
excellent  advice  of  old  Polonius's: 

‘Costly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy, 

But  not  expressed  in  fancy.’ 

It  is  the  fancy  that  swells  your  milliner’s  bill,  the  newly-invent- 
ed trimmings,  the  complex  and  laborious  combinations.” 

“ I will  be  dreadfully  economical  in  future,  Conrad.  For  the 
last  year  I have  dressed  to  please  you.” 

But  what  becomes  of  all  these  gowns  ?”  asked  the  captain, 
folding  up  the  bill;  “ what  do  you  do  with  them?” 

“ They  go  out.” 

“ Out  where  ? To  the  colonies?’* 


268 


VIXEN. 


“ No,  dear;  they  go  out  of  fashion;  and  I give  them  to  Pau- 
line.” 

“ A sixfcy-guinea  dress  flung  to  vour  waiting-maid!  The  Duch- 
ess of  Dovedale  could  not  do  things  in  better  style.” 

“ I should  be  very  sorry  not  to  dress  better  tlian  the  duchess,” 
said  Mrs.  Carmichael,  ‘‘  she  is  always  hideously  dowdy.  But  a 
duchess  can  afford  to  dress  as  badly  as  she  likes.” 

“ I see.  Then  it  is  we  only  who  occupy  the  border-land  of  so- 
ciety, w ho  have  to  be  careful.  Well,  ray  dear  Pamela.  I shall 
send  Madame  Theodore  her  cl  eck,  and  with  your  permission 
close  her  account;  and,  unless  you  receive  some  large  accession 
of  fortune,  I should  recommend  you  not  to  re-open  it.” 

His  wife  gave  a heart-breaking  sigh. 

‘•I  would  sacrifice  anything  for  ycur  sake,  Conrad,”  she  said, 

but  I shall  be  a perfect  horror,  and  you  will  hate  me.” 

“ I fell  in  love  with  you,  my  dear,  not  with  your  gown.” 

“But  you  fell  in  love  wdth  me  in  my  gown,  dear;  and  you 
don’t  know  how  different  your  feelings  might  have  been  if  you 
had  seen  me  in  a gown  cut  by  a country  dress- maker.” 


CHAPTER  XXXY. 

“WITH  WEARY  DAYS  THOU  SHALT  BE  CLOTHED  AWD  FED.” 

Captain  Carmichael  never  again  alluded  to  the  dress-maker’s 
bill.  He  was  too  wise  a man  to  re-open  old  wounds  or  to  dwell 
upon  small  vexations.  He  had  invested  every  penny  that  he 
could  spare,  leaving  the  smallest  balance  at  his  banker’s  com- 
patible with  respectability.  He  had  to  sell  some  railroad  shares 
in  order  to  pay  Madame  Theodore.  Happily  the  shares  had  gone 
up  since  his  purchase  of  them,  and  he  lost  nothing  by  tlie  trans- 
action; but  it  galled  him  sorely  to  part  with  the  money.  It  was  as 
if  an  edifice  that  1 e had  been  toilfully  raisingstone,  by  stone,  had 
begun  to  crumble  under  his  hands.  He  knew  not  when  or 
whence  the  next  call  might  come.  The  time  in  which  he  had  to 
save  money  was  so  short.  Only  six  years,  and  the  heiress  would 
claim  her  estate,  and  Mrs.  Carmichael  would  be  left  wuth  tl^e 
empty  shell  of  her  present  position — the  privilege  of  occupying 
a fine  old  Tudor  mansion,  with  enormous  stables,  and  fifteen 
acres  of  garden  and  shrubberies,  and  an  annuity  that  would  bare- 
ly suffice  to  maintain  existence  in  a third-rate  London  square. 

Iffrs.  Carmichael  was  slow  to  recover  from  the  shock  of  her 
husband’s  strong  language  about  Theodore’s  bill.  She  was  sen- 
sitive about  all  things  that  touched  her  own  personality,  and  she 
Avas  peculiarly  sensitive  about  the  difference  between  her  hus» 
band’s  age  and  her  own.  She  had  married  a man  who  was  her 
junior;  but  she  had  married  him  with  the  conviction  th«ai,  in  his 
eyes  at  least,  she  had  all  the  bloom  and  beauty  of  youtli,  and 
that  he  admired  and  loved  her  above  all  other  women.  That 
ciiance  allusion  to  her  wrinkles  had  pierced  her  heart.  She  was 
deeply  afflicted  b,y  the  idea  that  her  husband  had  perceived  the 
signs  of  advancing  years  in  her  face.  And  now  she  fell  to 
X^erusing  her  looldng-glass  more  critically  than  she  had  ever 
done  before.  She  saw  herself  in  the  searching  north  light;  and 


VIXEN. 


269 


the  north  light  was  more  cruel  and  more  candid  than  Captain 
^armichaoir  There  were  lines  on  her  forehead — unmistakable, 
ineffaceable  lines.  She  could  wear  her  hair  in  no  way  that 
would  hide  them,  unless  she  had  hidden  her  forehead  al- 
together under  a bush  of  frizzy,  fluffy  curls.  Tliere  was 
a faded  look  about  her  complexion,  too,  which  she  had 
never  before  discovered — a wanness,  a yellowness.  Yes,  these 
things  meant  agel  In  such  a spirit,  perchance,  did  Elizabeth 
of  England  survey  the  reflection  in  her  mirror,  until  all  the 
glories  of  her  reign  seemed  as  nothing  to  her  wb-en  weighed 
against  this  dread  horror  of  fast-coming  age.  And  luckless 
Mary,  cooped  up  in  the  narrow  rooms  at  Fotheringay,  may  have 
deemed  captivity,  and  the  shadow  of  doom,  as  but  trifling  ills 
compared  wdth  the  loss  of  youth  and  beauty.  Once  to  have 
been  exquisitely  beautiful,  the  inspiration  of  poets,  the  chosen 
model  of  painters,  and  to  see  the  glory  fading — that,  for  a weak 
woman,  must  be  sorrow^s  crown  of  sorrow. 

Anon  dim  feelings  of  jealousy  began  to  gnaw  Pamela's  heart. 
Shr  grew  watchful  of  her  husband’s  attentions  to  other  women, 
suspicious  of  looks  and  woi'ds  that  meant  no  more  than  a man’s 
desire  to  please.  Society  no  longer  made  her  happy.  Her  Tues- 
day afternoons  lost  their  charm.  There  was  poison  in  every- 
thing. Lady  Ellangowan’s  flirting  w^.ys,  which  had  once  only 
amused  her,  now  tortured  her.  Captain  Carmichael's  devotion 
tothicj  lively  matron,  which  had  heretofore  seemed  only  the  com- 
moner’s tribute  of  respect  to  the  peeress,  now  struck  his  wife  as 
a too  obvious  infatuation  for  the  woman.  She  began  to  feel 
wretched  in  the  society  of  certain  women — nay,  of  all  women 
who  were  younger,  or  possibly  more  attractive,  than  herself. 
She  felt  that  the  only  security  for  her  peace  would  be  to  live  on 
a desert  island  wnth  the  husband  she  had  chosen.  She  was  of 
too  weak  a mind  to  hide  these  growing  doubts  and  ever-augment- 
ing suspicions.  The  miserable  truth  oozed  out  of  her  in  foolish 
little  speeches;  those  continual  droppings  that  wear  the  hardest 
stone,  and  which  vrore  even  the  adamantine  surface  of  the  cap- 
tain’s tranquil  temper.  There  was  a homoeopathic  admixture  of 
this  jealous  poison  in  all  the  food  he  ate.  He  could  rarely  get 
through  a tete-a-tete  breakfast  or  dinner  undisturbed  by  some  in- 
vidious remark. 

One  day  the  captain  rose  up  in  his  strength,  and  grappled 
with  this  jealous  demon.  He  had  let  the  little  speeches,  the 
random  shots,  pass  unheeded  until  now;  but  on  one  particularly 
dismal  morning,  a bleak  March  morning,  when  the  rain  beat 
against  the  windows,  and  the  deodoras  and  cypresses  vrere 
lashed  and  tormented  by  the  blusterous  wind,  and  the  low  sky 
was  darkly  gray,  the  captain’s  temper  suddenly  broke  out. 

“ My  dear  Pamela,  is  it  possible  tiiat  these  whimpering  little 
speeches  of  yours  mean  jealousy  ?”  he  asked,  looking  at  her  se- 
verely from  under  bent  brows. 

“I’m  sure  I never  said  that  I was  jealous,”  faltered  Pamela, 
stirring  her  tea  with  a nervous  movement  of  her  thin  white 
hand. 

“ Of  course  not;  no  woman  cares  to  describe  herself  in  plain 


270 


VIXEN. 


words  as  an  idiot;  but  of  late  yon  have  favorca  me  with  a good 
many  imbecile  remarks,  which  all  seem  to  tend  one  way.  You 
are  hurt  and  wounded  when  I am  decently  civil  to  the  women  I 
meet  in  society.  Is  that  sensible  or  reasonable,  in  a woman  of 
your  age  and  experience?” 

‘‘You  used  not  to  taunt  me  with  my  age  before  we  were  mar* 
ried,  Conrad.” 

“ Do  I taunt  you  with  it  now?  I only  say  that  a woman  of 
forty  ” — Mrs.  Carmichael  shuddered — “ought  to  have  mere  sense 
than  a ghl  of  eighteen;  and  that  a woman  who  had  had  twenty 
years’  experience  of  well-bred  society  ought  not  to  put  on  the 
silly  jealousies  of  a school-girl  trying  to  provoke  a quarrel  with 
her  first  lover.” 

“It  is  all  very  well  to  pretend  to  think  me  weak  and  foolish, 
Conrad.  Yes,  I know  I am  weak,  ridiculously  weak,  in  loving 
you  as  intensely  as  I do.  But  I cannot  help  that.  It  is  my  nat- 
ure to  cling  to  others,  as  the  ivy  clings  to  the  oak.  I would 
have  clung  to  Violet,  if  she  had  been  more  loving  and  lovable. 
But  you  cannot  deny  that  your  conduct  to  Lady  Ellangowan 
yesterday  afternoon  was  calculated  to  make  any  wife  unhappy.” 

“ If  a wife  is  to  be  unhappy  because  her  husband  talks  to  an- 
other woman  about  her  horses  and  her  gardens,  I suppose  I gave 
you  sufficient  cause  for  misery,”  answered  the  captain,  sneer- 
ingly.  “ I can  declare  that  Lady  Ellangowan  and  I were  talk- 
ing of  nothing  more  sentimental.” 

“ Oh,  Conrad,  it  is  not  ivliat  you  talked  about,  though  your 
voice  was  so  subdued  that  it  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  know 
what  you  were  saying ” 

“ Except  Lady  Ellangowan.” 

“ It  was  your  manner.  The  way  you  bent  over  her,  your 
earnest  expression.” 

“Would  you  have  had  me  stand  three  yards  off  and  bawl  at 
the  lady?  Or  am  I bound  to  assume  that  bored  and  vacuous 
countenance  which  some  young  men  consider  good  form?  Come, 
my  dear  Pamela,  pray  let  us  be  reasonable.  Here  are  you  and  I 
settled  for  life  beside  the  domestic  hearth.  We  have  no  chil- 
dren. We  are  not  particularly  well  off — it  will  be  as  much  as 
we  shall  be  able  to  do,  by  and  by,  to  make  both  e?  ds  meet.  We 
are  neither  of  us  getting  younger.  These  things  are  serious  cares, 
and  we  have  to  bear  them.  Why  should  you  add  to  these  an 
imaginary  trouble,  ? torment  that  has  no  existence,  save  in  your 
own  perverse  mind  ? If  "^mu  could  but  know  my  low  estimate  of 
the  women  to  whom  I am  civil!  I like  society;  and  to  get  on  in 
society  a man  must  make  himself  agreeable  to  influential 
women.  It  is  the  women  who  have  the  reins  in  the  social  race, 
and  by  and  by,  if  I should  go  into  Parliament — ” 

“Pariiament!”  cried  his  wife,  affrighb'dly.  “You  want  to 
become  a member  of  Parliament,  and  to  be  out  at  all  hours  of 
the  night!  Our  home-life  would  be  altogether  destroyed  then.” 

“ My  dear  Pamela,  if  you  take  such  pains  to  make  our  home- 
life  !!  iserabie,  it  will  be  hardly  worth  preserving,”  retorted  the 
captain. 


VIXEN,  271 

Conrad,  I am  going  to  ask  you  a question — a very  solemn 
question.” 

“You  alarm  me.” 

“ Long  ago — before  we  were  married — when  Violet  was  argu- 
ing with  me  against  our  marriage — ^you  know  how  vehemently 
she  opposed  it — ” 

“Perfectly.  Goon.” 

“ She  told  me  that  you  had  proposed  to  her  before  you  pro-* 
posed  to  me.  Oh,  Conrad,  could  that  be  true?” 

The  heart-rending  tone  in  which  the  question  was  asked,  the 
pathetic  look  that  accompanied  it,  convinced  Captain  Carmichael 
that,  if  he  valued  his  domestic  peace,  he  must  perjure  himself. 

“It  had  no  more  foundation  than  many  other  assertions  of 
that  young  lady’s,”  he  said.  “I  may  have  paid  her  compli- 
ments and  praised  her  beauty;  but  how  could  I think  of  her  for 
a wife  when  you  were  by?  Your  soft,  confiding  nature  con- 
quered me  before  I knew  that  I was  hit.” 

He  got  up  and  went  over  to  his  wife  and  kissed  her  kindl}’' 
enough,  feeling  sorry  for  her,  as  he  might  have  done  for  a way- 
ward child  that  weeps  it  scarce  knows  wherefore,  oppressed  by 
a vague  sense  of  affliction. 

“ Let  us  try  to  be  happy  together,  Pamela,”  he  pleaded  with  a 
sigh,  “ life  is  weary  work  at  best.” 

“That  means  that  you  are  not  happy,  Conrad.” 

“ My  love,  T am  as  happy  as  you  will  let  me  be.” 

“ Have  I ever  opposed  you  in  anything  ?” 

“No,  dear;  but  lately  you  have  indulged  in  covert  upbraid- 
ings  that  have  plagued  me  sorely.  Let  us  have  no  more  of  them. 
As  for  your  daughter  ” — his  face  darkened  at  the  mention  of  that 
name — “ understand,  at  once  and  forever,  that  she  and  I can 
never  inhabit  the  same  house.  If  she  comes,  I go.  If  you  can- 
not live  without  her  you  must  learn  to  live  without  me.” 

“Conrad,  what  have  I done  that  you  should  talk  of  such  a 
thing  ? Have  I asked  you  to  let  Violet  come  home  ?” 

“No,  but  you  have  behaved  mopishly  of  late  as  if  you  were 
pining  for  her  return.” 

“ I pine  for  nothing  but  your  love.” 

“That  has  always  been  yours.” 

With  this  assurance  Mrs.  Carmichael  was  fain  to  content  her- 
self; but  even  this  assurance  did  not  make  her  happy.  The  glory 
and  brightness  had  departed  from  h’er  life  somehow,  and  neither 
kind  words  nor  friendly  smiles  from  the  captain  could  lure  them 
back.  There  are  stages  in  the  lives  of  all  of  us  when  life  seems 
hardly  worth  living:  not  periods  of  great  calamity,  but  dull 
level  bits  of  road,  along  which  the  journey  seems  veiy  weary. 
The  sun  has  hidden  himself  behind  gray  clouds,  cold  winds 
are  blowing  up  from  the  bitter  east,  the  birds  have  left  off  sing- 
ing, the  landscape  has  lost  its  charm.  We  plod  on  drearily,  and 
can  see  no  Pole  Star  in  life’s  darkening  sky. 

It  had  been  thus  of  late  with  Pamela  Carmichael.  Slowly  and 
gradually  the  conviction  had  come  to  her  that  her  second 
marriage  had  been  a foolish  and  ill-advised  transaction,  result- 
ing inevitably  in  sorrow  and  unavailing  remorse.  The  sweet 


272 


vixEn. 


delusion  that  it  had  been  a love-mat(*.h  on  Captain  Carmichael’a 
side,  as  well  as  on  her  own,  abandoned  her  all  at  once,  and  she 
found  herself  face  to  face  with  stern  common-sense. 

That  scene  about  Theodore’s  bill  had  exercised  a curious  effect 
upon  her  mind.  To  an  intellect  so  narrow  trifles  were  im- 
portant, and  that  the  husband  who  had  so  much  admired  and 
praised  the  elegance  of  her  appearance  could  grudge  the  cost  of 
her  toilet  galled  her  sorely.  It  was  positively  for  her  the  first 
revelation  of  her  husband’s  character.  His  retrenchments  in 
household  expenses  she  had  been  ready  to  applaud  as  praise- 
worthy econ(  mies ; but  when  he  assailed  her  own  extravagance, 
she  saw  in  him  a husband  who  loved  far  too  wisely  to  love  well. 

“If  he  cared  for  me,  if  he  valued  my  good  looks,  he  could 
never  object  to  my  spending  a few  pounds  upon  a dress,*’  she 
told  herself. 

She  could  not  take  the  captain’s  common- sense  view  of  a sub- 
ject so  important  to  herself.  Love  in  her  mind  meant  a blind 
indulgence  like  the  squire’s.  Love  that  could  count  the  cost  of 
its  idol’s  caprices,  and  calculate  the  chances  of  the  future,  was 
not  love.  That  feeling  of  poverty,  too,  was  a new  sensation  to 
the  mistress  of  the  Abbey  House,  and  a very  unpleasant  one. 
Married  very  young  to  a man  of  ample  means,  who  adored  her, 
and  never  set  the  slightest  restriction  upon  her  expenditure, 
extravagance  had  become  her  second  nature.  To  ha  ve  to  study 
every  outlay,  to  ask  herself  whether  she  could  not  do  without  a 
thing,  was  a bard  trial;  but  it  had  become  so  painful  to  her  to 
ask  the  captain  for  money  that  she  preferred  the  novel  pain  of 
self-denial  to  that  humiliation.  And  then  there  was  the  cheer- 
less prospect  of  the  future  always  staring  her  in  the  face,  that 
dreary  time  after  Violet’s  majority,  when  it  would  be  a question 
whether  she  and  her  husband  could  afford  to  go  on  living  at  the 
Abbey  House. 

“ Everybody  will  know  that  my  income  is  diminished,”  she 
thought.  “However  well  we  may  manage,  people  will  know 
that  we  are  pinching.” 

This  was  a vexatious  reflection.  The  sting  of  poverty  itself 
could  not  be  so  sharp  as  the  pain  of  being  known  to  be  poor. 

Captain  Carmichael  pursued  the  even  tenor  of  his  way  all  this 
time,  and  troubled  himself  but  little  about  his  wife’s  petty  sor- 
rows. He  did  his  duty  to  her  according  to  his  own  lights,  and 
considered  that  she  had  no  ground  for  complaint.  He  even  took 
pains  to  be  less  subdued  in  his  manner  to  Lady  Ellangowan,  and 
to  give  no  shadow  of  reason  for  the  foolish  jealousy  he  so  much 
bespised.  His  mind  was  busy  about  his  own  affairs.  He  had 
saved  money  since  his  marriage,  and  he  employed  himself  a good 
(leal  in  the  investment  of  his  savings.  So  far  he  had  been  lucky 
in  all  he  touched,  and  had  contrived  to  increase  his  capital  by 
one  or  two  speculative  ventures  in  foreign  railways.  If  things 
went  on  as  well  for  the  next  six  years,  he  and  his  wife  might 
live  at  the  Abbey  House,  and  maintain  their  station  in  the 
county,  till  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

“I  dare  say  Pamela  will  outlive  rne,*’  thought  the  captain; 
“those  fra gile-loOi ting  invalid  women  are  generally  long-lived. 


VIXEN. 


278 


And  I have  all  the  chances  of  the  hunting-field,  and  vicious 
horses,  and  other  men’s  blundering  with  loaded  guns,  against 
me.  What  can  happen  to  a woman  who  sits  at  home  and  wcrks 
crewel  antimacassars  and  reads  novels  all  day,  and  never  drinks 
anything  stronger  than  tea,  and  never  eats  enough  to  disturb 
her  digestion  ? She  ought  to  be  a female  Methuselah.” 

Secure  in  this  idea  of  his  wife’s  longevity,  and  happy  in  his 
speculations,  Captain  Carmichael  looked  forward  cheerfully  to 
the  future;  and  the  evil  shadow  of  the  day  when  the  hand  of 
fate  should  thrust  him  from  the  good  old  house  where  he  was 
master  had  never  fallen  across  his  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XXXYI. 

LOVE  AND  ESTHETICS. 

Spring  had  returned,  primroses  and  violets  were  being  sold  at 
the  street-corners,  Parliament  was  assembled,  and  London  had 
re-awakened  from  its  wintry  hibernation  to  new  life  and  vigor. 
The  Dovedales  were  at  their  Kensington  mansion.  The  duchess 
had  sent  forth  her  cards  for  alternate  Thursday  evenings  of  a 
quasi-literary  and  scientific  character.  Lady  Mabel  was  polish- 
ing her  poems  with  serious  thoughts  of  publication,  but  with 
strictest  secrecy.  No  one  but  her  parents  and  Roderick  Vawdrey 
had  been  told  of  these  poetic  flights.  The  book  would  be  given 
to  the  world  under  a nom  de  pLmne,  Lady  Mabel  was  not  so 
much  a Philistine  as  to  suppose  that  writing  good  poetry  could 
])(5  a disgrace  to  a duke’s  daughter  ; but  she  felt  that  the  house 
of  Ashbourne  would  be  seriously  compromised  were  the  critics 
to  find  her  guilty  of  writing  doggerel ; and  critics  are  apt  to  deal 
harshly  with  tlie  titled  muse.  She  remembered  Brougham’s 
savage  onslaught  upon  the  boy  Byron. 

Mr.  Vawdrey  was  in  town.  He  rode  a good  deal  ir  the  Row, 
spent  an  hour  or  so  daily  at  TattersalTs,  haunted  three  or  four 
clubs  of  a juvenile  and  frivolous  character,  drank  numerous 
bottles  of  Apolinaris,  and  found  the  task  of  killing  time  rather 
hard  labor.  Of  course  there  were  certain  hours  in  which  he  was 
on  duty  at  Kensington c He  was  expected  to  eat  his  luncheon 
there  daily,  to  dine  when  neither  he  nor  the  ducal  house  had 
any  other  engagement,  and  to  attend  all  his  aunt’s  parties.  There 
was  always  a place  reserved  for  him  at  the  dinner-table,  how- 
ever middle-aged  and  politically  or  socially  important  the  assem- 
bly might  me. 

He  was  to  be  married  early  in  August.  Everything  was 
arranged.  The  honeymoon  Avas  to  be  spent  in  SAveden  and  Nor- 
way— the  only  accessible  part  of  Europe  which  Lady  Mabel  had 
not  explored.  They  were  to  see  everything  remarkable  in  the 
two  countries,  and  to  do  Denmark  as  well,  if  they  had  time. 
Lady  Mabel  was  learning  Swedish  and  Norwegian,  in  order  to 
make  the  most  of  her  opportunities. 

' “ It  is  so  wretched  to  be  dependent  upon  couriers  and  inter- 
preters,” she  said.  “ I shall  be  a more  useful  companion  for 
you,  Roderick,  if  I thoroughly  know  the  language  of  each  coun- 
ty.” 


274 


VIXEN. 


**  My  dear  Mabel,  you  are  a most  remarkable  girl,”  exclaimed 
her  betrothed,  admiringly.  “ If  you  go  on  at  this  rate,  by  the 
time  you  are  forty  you  vvill  be  as  great  a linguist  as  Cardinal 
Wiseman.” 

‘‘  Languages  are  very  easy  to  learn  when  one  has  the  habit  of 
studying  them,  and  a slight  inclination  for  etymology,”  Lady 
Mabel  replied,  modestly. 

Now  that  the  hour  of  publication  was  really  drawing  nigh,  the 
poetess  began  to  feel  the  need  of  a confidante.  The  duchess  was 
admiring  but  somewhat  obtuse,  and  rarely  admired  in  the  right 
place.  The  duke  ’was  out  of  the  question. 

If  a new  Shakespeare  had  favored  him  with  the  first  reading  of 
a tragedy  as  great  as  Hamlet,  the  duke’s  thoughts  would  liave 
wandered  off  to  the  impending  dearth  of  guano,  or  the  probable 
exhaustion  of  Suffolk  punches,  and  the  famous  breed  of  Chil- 
lingham  oxen.  So,  for  w^ant  of  any  one  better.  Lady  Mabel  was 
constrained  to  read  her  verses  to  her  future  husband;  just  as 
Moliere  reads  his  plays  to  his  housekeeper,  for  want  of  any  other 
hearer,  the  two  Bejarts,  aunt  and  niece,  having  naturally  plays 
enough  and  to  spare  in  the  theater. 

Now,  in  this  crucial  hour  of  her  poetic  career,  Mabel  Ash- 
bourne wanted  something  more  than  a patient  listener.  She 
wanted  a critic  with  a fine  ear  for  rhythm  and  euphony.  She 
wanted  a judge  who  could  nicely  weigh  the  music  of  a certain 
combination  of  syllables,  and  who  could  decide  for  her  when  she 
hesitated  between  two  epithets  of  equal  force,  but  varying 
depths  of  tone. 

To  this  nice  task  she  invited  her  betrothed  sometimes  on  a 
sunny  April  afternoon,  when  luncheon  was  over,  and  the  lovers 
were  free  to  repair  to  Lady  Mabel’s  own  particular  den— an  airy 
room  on  an  upper  floor,  with  quaint  old  Queen  Anne  casements 
opening  upon  a balcony  crammed  with  flowers,  and  overlooking 
the  umbrageous  avenues  of  Kensington  Garden,  with  a glimpse 
of  the  old  red  palace  in  the  distance. 

Eorie  did  his  best  to  be  useful,  and  applied  himself  to  his  duty 
with  perfect  heartiness  and  good-temper;  but  luncheon  and  the 
depressing  London  atmosphere  made  him  sleepy,  and  he  had 
sometimes  hard  work  to  stifle  his  yawns,  and  to  keep  his  eyes 
open,  while  Lady  Mabel  was  deep  in  the  entanglement  of  lines 
which  soared  to  the  seventh  heaven  of  metaphysics.  Unhappily 
Eorie  knew  hardly  anything  about  metaphysick  He  ha.d  never 
read  Victor  Cousin,  or  any  of  the  great  German  lights;  and  a 
feeling  of  despair  took  possession  of  him  wlien  liis  sweetlieart’s 
poetry  degenerated  into  diluted  Hegelism,  or  rose  to  a feeble 
imitation  of  Browning’s  obscurest  verse. 

“ Either  I must  be  intensely  stupid  or  this  must  be  rather  dif- 
ficult to  understand,”  he  thought,  helplessly,  when  Mabel  had 
favored  him  with  the  perusal  of  the  first  act  of  a tragedy  or 
poetic  duologue,  in  wliich  the  hero,  a kind  of  milk-and- watery 
Faustus,  held  converse,  and  ar^ed  upon  the  deeper  questions 
of  life  and  faith,  witli  a very  mild  Mephisto. 

“ I m afraid  you  don’t  like  the  opening  of  my  ‘ Tra^dy  of  the 
Skeptic  Soul,’  ” Lady  Mabel  said,  with  a somewhat  offended  air, 


VIXEN. 


275 


as  she  looked  up  at  the  close  of  the  act,  and  saw  poor  Rorie  gaz- 
ing at  her  with  watery  eyes,  and  an  intensely  despondent  ex- 
pression of  countenance. 

“I’m  afraid  I’m  rather  dense  this  afternoon,”  lie  said,  with 
hasty  apology.  “I  think  your  first  act  is  beautifully  written — 
the  lines  are  full  of  music;  nobody  v/ith  an  ear  for  euphony 
could  doubt  that;  but  1 — forgive  me,  I fancy  you  are  sometimes 
a shade  too  metaphysical — and  those  scientific  terms  which  you 
occasionally  employ,  I fear,  will  be  a little  over  the  heads  of  the 
general  public — ” 

“My  dear  Roderick,  do  you  suppose  that  in  an  age  whose 
highest  characteristic  is  the  rapid  advance  of  scientific  knowl- 
edge, there  can  be  anybody  so  beniglited  as  not  to  understand 
the  terminology  of  sidcnce  ?” 

“ Perhaps  not,  dear.  I fear  I am  very  much  behind  the  times. 
I have  lived  too  much  in  Hampshire.  I frankly  confess  that 
some  expressions  in  your — er — Tragedy — of — er — Soulless  Skept 
— Skeptic  Soul — were  Greek  to  me.” 

“Poor  dear  Roderick,  I should  hardly  take  you  as  the  highest 
example  of  the  Zeitgeist;  but  I won’t  allow  you  to  call  your- 
self stupid.  I’m  glad  you  like  the  swing  of  the  verse.  Did  it 
remind  you  of  any  contemporary  poet?” 

“ Well,  yes,  I chink  it  dimly  suggested  Browning.” 

“ I am  glad  of  that.  I would  not  for  worlds  be  an  imitator  ; 
but  Browning  is  my  idol  among  poets.” 

“ Some  of  his  minor  pieces  are  awfully  jolly,”  v«aid  the  incor- 
rigible Rorie.  “That  little  poem  called  ‘ Youth  and  Art,’ for 
instance.  And  ‘James  Lee’s  Wife’  is  rather  nice,  if  one  could 
quite  get  at  what  it  means.  Bat  I suppose  that  is  too  much  to 
be  expected  from  any  great  poet  ?” 

“There  are  deeper  meanings  beneath  the  surface — meanings 
which  require  study,”  replied  Mabel,  condescendingly,  “ Those 
are  the  religion  of  poetry — ” 

“ No  doubt,”  assented  Rorie,  hastily  ; “but^frankly,  my  dear 
Mabel,  if  you  want  your  book  to  be  popular—” 

“ I don’t  want  my  book  to  be  popular.  Browning  is  not  popu- 
lar. If  I had  wanted  to  be  popular,  I should  have  worked  on  a 
lower  level.  I would  even  have  st<^oped  to  write  a novel.” 

“ Well,  then,  I will  say,  if  you  want  your  p.em  to  be  under- 
stood by  the  average  intellect,  I really  would  sink  the  scientific 
terminology,  and  throw  overboard  a good  deal  of  the  metaphys- 
ics. Byron  has  not  a scientific  or  technical  phrase  in  all  bis 
poems.” 

“My  dear  Roderick,  you  surely  would  not  compare  me  to  By- 
ron, the  poet  of  the  Philistines  ! You  might  as  well  compare 
me  with  the  author  of  ‘ Lalla  Rookh  ’ at  once,  or  advise  me  to 
write  like  Rogers  or  Campbell.” 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  Mabel.  I’m  afraid  I must  be  an 
out-and-out  Philistine,  for  to  my  mind  Byron  is  the  prince  of 
poets.  I would  rather  have  written  ‘ The  Giaour  * than  any- 
thing that  has  ever  been  published  since  it  appeared.” 

“ My  poor  Roderick  I”  exclaimed  Mabe^  with  a pitying  sigh. 


276 


VIXEN. 


‘ You  might  as  well  say  you  would  be  proud  of  having  written 
‘The  Pickwick  Papers.’” 

“And  so  I should!”  cried  Eerie,  heartily-  “ T should  think  no 
end  of  myself  if  I had  invented  Winkle.  Do  you  remember  his 
ride  from  Rochester  to  DingieyDell? — one  of  the  finest  things 
that  was  ever  written.” 

And  this  incorrigible  young  man  flung  himself  back  in  the 
low  arm-chair,  and  laughed  heartily  at  the  mere  recollection  of 
that  episode  in  the  life  of  the  famous  Nathaniel.  Mabel  Ash- 
bourne closed  her  manuscinpt  volume  with  a sigh,  and  regis- 
tered an  oath  that  she  would  never  read  any  more  of  her  poetry 
to  Roderick  Vawdrey.  It  was  quite  useless.  The  poor  young 
man  meant  well,  but  he  was  incorrigibly  stupid — a man  who 
admired  Byron  and  Dickens,  and  believed  Macaulay  the  first  of 
historians." 

“ In  the  realm  of  thought  we  must  dwell  apart  all  our  lives,” 
Mabel  told  lierself,  despairingly. 

“ The  horses  are  ordered  for  five,”  she  said,  as  she  locked  the 
precious  volume  in  her  desk;  “will  you  get  yours  and  come 
back  for  me?” 

“ I shall  be  delighted,”  answered  her  lover,  relieved  at  being 
let  off  so  easily. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Lord  Mallow,  who  was  working 
with  all  his  might  for  the  regeneration  of  his  country,  made  a 
great  hit  in  the  House  by  his  speech  on  the  Irish  land  question. 
He  had  been  doing  wonderful  things  in  Dublin  duiing  the  win- 
ter, holding  forth  to  patriotic  'assemblies  in  the  Round  Room  of 
theYtotunda,  boldly  declaring  himself  a champion  of  the  Home 
Rulers’  cause,  demanding  a Repeal  and  nothing  but  Repeal. 
He  was  one  of  the  few  Repealers  who  had  a stake  in  the  coun- 
try, and  who  was  likely  to  lose  by  the  disruption  of  social  order. 
If  foolish,  he  was  at  least  disinterested,  and  had  the  courage  of 
his  opinions.  This  was  in  the  days  when  Mr.  Gladstone  was 
Prime  Minister,  and  when  Irish  Radicals  looked  to  him  as  the 
one  man  who  could  and  would  give  them  Home  Rule. 

In  the  House  of  Commons,  Lord  Mallow  w^as  not  ashamed  to 
repeat  the  arguments  he  had  used  in  the  Round  Room.  If  this 
language  was  less  vehement  at  Westminster  than  it  had  been  in 
Dublin,  his  opinions  were  no  less  thorough.  He  had  liis  party  here, 
as  well  as  on  the  other  side  of  the  Irish  Channel,  and  his  party 
applauded  him.  Here  was  a statesman  and  a landowner  willing 
to  give  an  ell,  where  Mr.  Gladstone’s  Land  Act  gave  only  an 
inch.  Hibernian  newspapers  sung  his  praises  in  glowing  words, 
comparing  him  to  Burke,  Curran,  and  O’Connell.  He  had  for 
some  time  been  a small  lion  at  evening  parties;  he  now  began 
to  be  lionized  at  serious  dinners.  He  was  thought  much  of  in 
Carlton  Gardens,  and  his  name  figured  at  official  banquets  in 
Downing  Street.  The  Duchess  of  Dovedale  considered  it  a nice 
trait  in  his  character  that,  although  he  was  so  much  in  request, 
and  worked  so  hard  in  the  House,  he  never  missed  one  of  her 
Thursday  evenings.  Even  when  there  was  an  important  debate 
on  he  would  tear  up  Birdcage  Walk  in  a hansom,  and  spend  an 
hour  in  the  duchess’s  amber  drawing-rooms,  enlightening  Lady 


VIXEN. 


2ri 

iVTabel  as  to  the  latest  aspect  of  the  Home  Rule  quest  on,  or  stand- 
ing by  the  piano  while  she  played  Chopiu. 

Lord  Mallow  had  never  forgotten  his  delight  at  finding  a young 
lady  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  history  of  his  native  land, 
thoroughly  interested  in  Erin’s  struggles  and  Erin’s  hopes;  a 
young  lady  who  knew  all  about  the  Protestants  of  Ulster,  and 
what  was  meant  by  Fixity  of  Tenure.  He  came  to  Lady  Mabel 
naturally  in  his  triumphs,  and  he  came  to  her  in  his  disappoint- 
ments. She  was  pleased  and  flattered  by  his  faith  in  her  wisdom, 
and  was  always  ready  to  lend  a gracious  ear.  She,  whose  soul 
was  full  of  ambition,  was  deeply  interested  in  the  career  of  an 
ambitious  young  man— a man  who  had  every  excuse  for  being 
shallow  and  idle,  and  yet  was  neither. 

‘‘  If  Roderick  w^ere  only  like  him  there  would  be  nothing  want- 
ing; in  my  life,”  she  thought,  regretfully.  “ I should  have  felt 
sucli  a pride  in  a husband’s  fame,  I should  have  worked  so 
gladly  to  assist  him  in  his  career.  The  dryest  blue-books  would 
not  have  been  too  weary  for  me — tlie  dullest  drudgery  of  parlia- 
mentary detail  would  have  been  pleasant  v/ork,  if  it  could  have 
helped  him  in  his  progress  to  political  distinctions.” 

One  evening,  when  Mabel  and  Lord  Mallow  were  standing  in 
the  embrasure  of  a window,  w alled  in  by  the  crownl  of  aristo- 
cratic nobodies  and  intellectual  eccentricities,  talking  earnestly 
of  poor  Erin  and  her  chances  of  ultimate  happiness,  the  lady, 
almost  unawares,  quoted  a couplet  of  her  own,  which  seemed 
peculiarly  applicable  to  the  argument. 

“ Who^e  lines  are  those?”  Lord  Mallow  asked,  eagerly;  “I 
never  heard  them  before.” 

Mabel  blushed  like  a school-girl  detected  in  sending  a valen- 
tine. 

“ Upon  my  soul,”  cried  the  Irishman,  “ I believe  they  are  your 
own!  Yes,  I am  sure  of  it.  Y'ou,  whose  mind  is  so  high  above 
the  common  level,  must  sometimes  express  yourself  in  poetry. 
They  are  yours,  are  they  not  ?” 

“ Can  you  keep  a secret  ?”  Lady  Mabel  asked,  shyly. 

“ For  you  ? Yes,  on  the  rack.  Wild  horses  should  not  tear 
it  out  of  my  heart;  boiling  lead,  falling  on  me  drop  by  drop, 
should  not  extort  it  from  me.” 

“The  lines  are  mine.  I have  written  a good  deal — inverse. 
I am  going  to  publish  a volume,  annonymously,  before  the  sea- 
son is  over.  It  is  quite  a secret.  No  one — except  mamma  and 
papa,  and  Mr.  Vawdrey — knows  anything  about  it.” 

“ How  proud  they — how  especially  proud  Mr.  Vawdrey  must 
be  of  your  genius,”  said  Lord  Mallow.  “ What  a lucky  fellow  he 
is.” 

He  was  thinking  just  at  that  moment  of  Violet  Tempest,  to 
whose  secret  preference  for  Roderick  Vawdrey  he  attributed  his 
own  rejection.  And  now  here — where  again  he  might  have 
found  the  fair  ideal  of  his  youthful  dreams— here  where  he 
might  have  hoped  to  form  an  alliance  at  once  socially  and 
politically  advantageous — this  young  Hampshire’s  squire  was 
before  him. 

“I  don’t  think  Mr.  Vawdrey  is  particularly  interested  in  my 


278 


VIXEN. 


poetical  efforts,”  Lady  Mabel  said,  with  assumed  Carelessness. 
“ He  doesn’t  care  for  poetry.  He  likes  Byron.” 

“What  an  admirable  epigram !”  cried  the  the  Hibernian,  to 
whom  flattery  was  second  nature.  “ I shall  put  that  down  in 
my  commonplace  book  when  I go  home.  How  I wish  you  would 
honor  me — but  it  is  to  ask  too  much,  perhaps — how  proud  I 
should  be  if  you  would  let  me  hear,  or  see,  some  of  your  poems.” 

“ Would  you  really  like ” faltered  Lady  Mabel. 

“ Like  I i should  deem  it  the  highest  privilege  your  friendship 
could  vouchsafe.” 

“ If  I felt  sure  it  would  not  bore  you,  I should  like  much  to  have 
your  opinion,  your  candid  opinion,”  (Lord  Mallow  tried  to  look 
the  essense  of  candor)  “ upon  some  things- 1 have  written.  But 
it  would  be  really  to  impose  too  much  upon  your  good  nature.” 

“ It  would  be  to  make  me  the  proudest,  and — for  that  one  brief 
hour  at  least — the  happiest  of  men,”  protested  Lord  Mallow, 
looking  intensely  sentimental. 

“And  you  will  deal  frankly  with  me?  You  will  not  flatter? 
You  will  be  as  severe  as  an  Edinburgh  reviewer  ?” 

“I  will  be  positively  brutal,”  said  Lord  Mallow.  “I  wdll  try 
to  imagine  myself  an  elderly  feminine  contributor  to  the  Satur- 
day, looking  at  you  with  vinegar  gaze  through  a pair  of  specta- 
cles, bent  upon  spotting  every  fleck  and  flaw  in  your  work,  and 
predetermined  not  to  see  anything  good  in  it.” 

“Then  I will  trust  you!”  cried  Lady  Mabel,  with  a gush.  “ I 
have  longed  for  a listener  who  could  understand  and  criticise, 
and  who  would  be  too  honorable  to  flatter.  I will  trust  you,  as 
Marguerite  of  Valois  trusted  Clement  Marot.” 

Lord  Mallow  did  not  know  anything  about  the  French  poet 
and  his  royal  mistress,  but  he  contrived  to  look  as  if  he  did. 
And,  before  he  ran  away  to  the  House  presently,  he  gave  Lady 
Mabel’s  hand  a tender  little  pressure,  which  she  accepted  in  all 
good  faith  as  a sign-manual  of  the  compact  between  them. 

They  met  in  the  Row  next  morning,  and  Lord  Mallow  asked— 
as  earnestly  as  if  the  answ^er  involved  vital  issues — when  he 
might  be  permitted  to  hear  those  interesting  poems. 

“Whenever  you  can  spore  time  to  listen,”  answered  Lady 
Mabel,  more  flattered  by  his  «tirnestness  than  by  all  the  adulatory 
'"ugar-plums  which  had  been  showered  upon  her  since  her  debut* 
“If  you  have  nothing  better  to  do  this  afternoon ” 

“ Could  I have  anything  better  to  do?” 

“We  won’t  enter  upon  so  wide  a question,”  said  Lady  Mabel, 
laughing  prettily.  “ If  committee-rooms  and  public  affairs  can 
spare  you  for  an  hour  or  two,  cjme  to  tea  with  mamma  at  five. 
I’ll  get  her  to  deny  herself  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  w^e 
can  have  an  undisturbed  hour  in  which  you  can  deal  severely 
with  my  poor  little  efforts.” 

Thus  it  happened  that,  in  the  sweet  spring  weather,  while 
Roderick  was  on  the  stand  at  Epsom,  watching  the  City  and 
Suburban  winner  pursue  his  meteor  course  along  the  close- 
cropped  sward.  Lord  Mallow  w^as  sitting  at  ease  in  a flowery 
fauteuil  in  the  Queen  Anne  moming-room  at  Kensington,  sip- 
ping orange-scented  tea  out  of  egg-shell  porcelain,  and  listening 


VIXEN. 


279 


to  Lady  Mabel’s  dulcet  accents,  as  she  somewhat  monotonously 
and  inexpressively  rehearsed  “ The  Tragedy  of  a Skeptic  Soul.” 

The  poem  was  long,  and,  sooth  to  say,  passing  dreary;  and, 
much  as  he  admired  the  duke’s  daughter,  there  were  moments 
when  Lord  Mallow  felt  his  eyelids  drooping,  and  heard  a buz- 
zing, as  of  summer  insects,  in  his  ears. 

There  was  no  point  of  interest  in  all  this  rhythmical  meander- 
ing* whereon  the  hapless  young  nobleman  could  fix  his  attention. 
Another  minute,  and  his  skeptic  soul  would  be  wandeiing  at 
ease  in  the  flowery  fields  of  sleep.  He  pulled  himself  together 
with  an  effort,  just  as  the  egg-shell  cup  and  saucer  were  slip- 
ping from  his  relaxing  grasp.  He  asked  the  duchess  for  an- 
other cup  of  that  delicious  tea.  He  gazed  resolutely  at  the  fair- 
faced maiden,  whose  rosy  lips  moved  graciously,  dTscoursing 
shallowest  platitudes  clothed  in  erudite  polysyllables;  and  then, 
at  the  first  pause — when  Lady  Mabel  laid  down  her  velvet-bound 
volume,  and  looked  timidly  upward  for  his  opinion — Lord  Mal- 
low poured  forth  a torrent  of  eloquence,  such  as  he  always  had 
in  stock,  and  praised  “The  Skeptic  Soul”  as  no  poem  and  no 
poet  had  ever  been  praised  before,  save  by  Hibernian  critic. 

The  richness,  the  melody,  the  depth,  color,  brilliance,  tone, 
variety,  far-reaching  thought,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

He  was  so  grateful  to  Providence  fcr  having  escaped  falling 
asleep  that  he  could  have  gone  on  forever  in  this  strain;  but  if 
any  one  had  asked  Lord  Mallow  what  “ The  Tragedy  of  a Skeptic 
Soul  ” was  about,  Lord  Mallow  would  have  been  spun. 

When  a strong-minded  woman  is  weak  upon  one  particular 
point,  she  is  apt  to  be  very  weak.  Lady  Mabel’s  weakness  was 
to  fancy  herself  a second  Browning.  She  had  never  yet  enjoyed 
the  bliss  of  having  her  own  idea  of  herself  confirmed  by  inde- 
pendent evidence.  Her  soul  thrilled  a^t  Lord  Mallow  poured 
forth  his  praises,  talking  of  “The  Book  and  the  Ring,”  and 
“ Paracelsus,”  and  a great  deal  more  of  which  he  knew  very 
little,  and  seeing  in  the  expression  of  Lady  Mabel’s  eyes  and 
mouth  that  he  was  saying  exactly  the  right  thing,  and  could 
hardly  say  too  much. 

They  were  tete-a-tete  by  this  time,  for  the  duchess  was  sleeping 
frankly,  her  crewel-work  drooping  from  the  hands  that  lay  idle 
in  her  lap,  her  second  cup  of  tea  on  the  table  beside  her,  half 
finished. 

“ I don’t  know  how  it  is,”  she  was  wont  to  say,  apologetically, 
after  these  pla(3id  slumbers.  “ There  is  something  in  Mabel’s 
voice  that  always  sends  me  to  sleep.  Her  tones  are  so  musical.” 

“ And  do  you  really  advise  me  to  publish  ?”  asked  Lady  Mabel, 
fluttered  and  happy. 

“ It  would  be  a sin  to  keep  such  verses  hidden  from  the  world.” 

“ They  will  be  published  anonymously,  of  course.  I could  not 
endure  to  be  pointed  at  as  the  author  of  ‘ The  Skeptic  Soul.’  To 
feel  that  evei-y  eye  was  upon  me — at  the  opera — in  the  Row — 
everywhere!  It  would  be  too  dreadful.  I should  be  proud  to 
know  that  I had  influenced  my  age,  given  a new  bent  to  thought; 
but  no  one  must  be  able  to  point  at  7/zc.” 

“ ‘ Thou  canst  not  say  I did  it,’  ” quoted  Lord  Mallow,  “ I eu- 


280 


VIXEN. 


tirely  appreciate  your  feelings.  Publicity  of  that  sort  must  bo 
revolting  to  a delicate  mind.  I should  think  Byron  would  have 
enjoyed  life  a great  deal  better  if  he  bad  never  been  known  as 
the  author  of  ‘ Childe  Harold.’  He  reduced  himself  to  a social 
play-actor — and  always  had  to  pose  in  his  particular  role — the 
Noble  Poet.  If  Bacon  really  Vv'rote  the  plays  we  call  Shake- 
speare’s, and  kept  the  secret  all  his  life,  he  was  indeed  the  wisest 
of  mankind.” 

‘You  have  done  nothing  but  praise  me,”  said  Lady  Mabel, 
after  a thoughtful  pause,  during  whieh  she  had  trifled  with  the 
golden  clasp  of  her  volume;  “I  want  you  to  do  something  more 
than  that.  I want  you  to  advise — to  tell  me  where  I am  redund- 
ant— to  point  out  where  I am  weak.  I want  you  to  help  me  in 
the  labor  of  polishing.” 

Lord  Mallow  pulled  Ids  whisker  doubtfully.  This  was  dread- 
ful. He  should  have  to  go  into  particulars  presently,  to  say 
what  lines  pleased  him  best,  which  of  the  various  meters  into 
which  the  tragedy  was  broken  up — like  a new  suburb  into 
squares  and  crescents  and  streets — seemed  to  him  happiest  and 
most  original. 

“ Can  you  trust  me  with  th.at  precious  volume?”  he  asked. 
“ If  you  can,  I will  spend  the  quiet  hours  of  the  night  in  ponder- 
ing over  its  pages,  and  will  give  you  the  result  of  my  meditco 
tions  to-morrow.” 

Mabel  put  the  book  into  his  hand  with  a grateful  smile. 

“ Pray  be  frank  with  me,”  she  pleaded.  “ Praise  like  yours  is 
perilous.” 

Lord  Mallow  kissed  her  hand  this  time,  instead  of  merely 
pressing  it,  and  went  away  radiant,  with  the  velvet-bound  book 
under  his  arm. 

“ She’s  a sweet  girl,”  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  hailed  a cab. 
“ I wish  she  wasn’t  engaged  to  that  Harnpshire  booby,  and  I 
wish  she  didn’t  write  poetry.  Hard  that  i should  have  to  do  the 
Hampshire  booby’s  workf  If  I were  to  leave  this  book  in  a 
hansom  now — there Y1  be  an  awful  situation!  ’ 

Happily  for  the  rising  statesman,  he  was  blessed  with  a clever 
young  secretary,  who  wrote  a good  many  letters  for  him,  read 
blue-books,  got  up  statistics,  and  interviewed  obtrusive  visitoj  s 
from  the  Green  Isle.  To  this  young  student  Lord  Mallow,  in 
strictest  secrecy,  confided  Lady  Mabel’s  manuscript. 

“ Read  it  carefully,  Allan,  while  I’m  at  the  house,  and  make  a 
note  of  everything  that's  bad  on  one  sheet  of  paper,  and  of 
everything  that’s  good  on  anotlier.  You  may  just  run  your 
pencil  along  the  margin  wherever  you  think  I might  write 
‘ divine!’  ‘ grandly  original!’  ‘ what  pathos!’  or  anything  of  that 
sort.” 

The  secretary  was  a conscientious  young  man  and  did  his 
work  nobly.  He  sat  far  into  the  small  hours,  plowing  through 
“The  Skeptic  Soul.”  It  was  tough  work;  but  Mr.  Allan  was 
Scotch,  and  dogged,  and  prided  himself  upon  his  critical  faculty 
This  autopsy  of  a tine  lady’s  poem  was  a congenial  labor.  He 
scribbled  pages  of  criticism,  went  into  the  minutest  details  of 
style,  fouild  a great  deal  to  blame  and  not  much  to  praise,  and 


VIXEN.  9.81 

gave  his  employer  a complete  digest  of  the  poem  before  break- 
fast next  morning. 

Lord  Mallow  attended  the  duchess’s  kettledrum  again  that 
afternoon,  and  this  time  ho  was  in  nowise  at  sea.  He  handled 
“ The  Skeptic  Soul”  as  if  every  line  of  it  had  been  engraven  on 
the  tablet  of  his  mind. 

“ See  here  now,”  he  cried,  turning  to  apenciled  margin ; ‘‘  I call 
this  a remarkable  passage,  yet  I think  it  might  be  strengthened 
by  some  trifling  excisions;”  and  then  he  sliowed  Lady  Mabel 
how,  by  pruning  twenty  lines  off  a passage  of  thirty-one,  a much 
finer  effect  miglat  be  attained. 

“And  you  really  think  my  thought  stands  out  more  clearly?” 
asked  Mabel,  looking  regretfully  at  the  lines  through  which  Lord 
Mallow  had  run  his  pencil — some  of  her  finest  lines. 

“ I am  sure  of  it.  That  grand  idea  of  yours  was  like  a star 
in  a hazy  sky.  We  have  cleared  away  the  fog.” 

Lady  Mabel  sighed.  “To  me  the  meaning  of  the  whole 
passage  seemed  so  obyious,”  she  said. 

“Because  it  was  your  own  thought.  A mother  knows  her 
own  children,  however  tliey  are  dressed.” 

This  second  tea-drinking  was  a very  serious  affair.  Lord 
Mallow  went  at  the  poem  like  a professional  reviewer,  and  crit- 
icised without  mercy,  yet  contrived  not  to  wound  the  author’s 
vanity. 

“ It  is  because  you  have  real  genius  that  I venture  to  be  bru- 
tally candid,”  he  said,  when,  by  those  slapdash  pencil-marks  of 
his — always  with  the  author’s  consent — he  had  reduced  the 
“Tragedy  of  the  Skeptic  Soul”  to  about  one-third  of  its  original 
length.  “ I was  earned  away  yesterday  by  my  first  impressions; 
to-day,  I am  coldly  critical.  I have  set  my  heart  upon  your 
poem  making  a great  success.” 

This  last  sentence,  freely  translated,  might  be  taken  to  mean: 
“ I should  not  like  such  an  elegant  young  woman  to  make  an 
utter  fool  of  herself.” 

Mr.  Vawdrey  came  in  v/hile  critic  and  poet  were  at  work,  and 
was  told  what  they  were  doing.  He  evinced  no  unworthy  jeal- 
ousy, but  seemed  glad  that  Lord  Mallow  should  be  so  useful. 

“ It’s  a very  fine  poem,”  he  said,  “ but  there’s  too  much  meta- 
physics in  it.  I told  Mabel  so  the  other  day.  She  must  alter  a 
good  deal  of  it,  if  she  wants  to  be  understanded  of  the  people.” 

“ My  dear  Roderick,  my  poem  is  metaphysical  or  it  is  nothing,” 
Mabel  answered,  pettishly. 

She  could  bear  criticism  from  Lord  Mallow  better  than  criti- 
cism from  Roderick.  After  this  it  became  an  established  custom 
for  Lord  [Mallow  to  drop  in  every  day  to  inspect  the  progress  of 
Lady  Mabel’s  poems  in  the  course  of  their  preparation  for  the 
press.  The  business  part  of  the  matter  had  been  delegated  to 
him,  as  much  more  an  fait  in  such  things  than  homely  rustic 
Rorie.  He  chose  the  publisher,  and  arranged  the  size  of  the 
volume,  type,  binding,  initials,  tail-pieces — every  detail.  The 
paper  was  to  be  thick  and  creamy,  the  type  mediaeval,  the  borders 
were  to  be  printed  in  carmine,  the  initials  and  tail-pieces  specially 
drawn  and  engraved,  and  as  quaint  as  the  wood-cuts  in  an  old 


^82 


VIXEN. 


edition  of  Ze  Lutrin,^^  The  book  was  to  have  red  edges,  and  a 
smooth,  gray  linen  binding  with  silver  lettering.  It  was  to  be 
altogether  a gem  of  typographic  art,  worthy  of  Firmin  Didot. 

By  the  end  of  May,  Lady  Mabel’s  poems  were  all  in  type,  and 
there  was  much  discussion  about  commas  and  notes  of  admira- 
tion, syllables  too  mucli  or  too  little,  in  the  flowery  morning- 
room  at  Kensington,  what  time  Eoderick  Vawdrey — sorely  at  a 
loss  for  occupation — wasted  the  summer  hours  at  races  or  regat- 
tas within  easy  reach  of  London,  or  v^ent  to  out-of-the-way 
places,  to  look  at  hunters  of  wonderful  repute,  which,  on  inspec- 
tion, were  generally  disappointing. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

CRUMPLED  ROSE  LEAVES, 

Violet  Tempest  had  been  away  from  home  nearly  a year,  and 
to  the  few  old  servants  remaining  at  the  Abbey  House,  and  to 
the  villagers  who  had  known  and  loved  her,  it  seemed  as  if  a 
light  had  gone  out. 

“ It‘s  like  it  was  after  the  squire’s  death,  when  miss  and  her 
ma  was  away,”  said  one  gossip  to  another;  “thevvorld  seems 
empty.” 

Mrs.  Carmichael  and  her  husband  had  been  living  as  became 
people  of  some  pretention  to  rank  and  fashion.  They  saw  very 
little  of  eacli  other,  but  were  seen  together  on  all  fitting  occasions. 
The  morning  service  in  the  little  church  at  Beechdale  would  not 
have  seemed  complete  without  those  two  figures.  The  faded 
beauty  in  trailing  silken  draperies  and  diaphanous  bonnet,  the 
slim,  well-dressed  captain,  with  his  bronzed  face  and  black 
whiskers.  They  were  in  everybody’s  idea  the  happiest  example 
of  married  bliss.  If  the  lady’s  languid  loveliness  had  faded 
more  within  the  last  year  or  so  than  in  the  ten  years  that  went 
before  it,  if  her  slow  steps  had  grown  slow^er,  her  white  hand 
more  transparent,  there  were  no  keen  loving  eyes  to  mark  the 
change. 

“ That  affectation  of  valetudinarianism  is  growing  on  Mrs. 
Carmichael,”  Mrs.  Scobel  said  one  day  to  her  husband.  “ It  is  a 
pity.  I believe  the  captain  encourages  it.” 

“ She  has  not  looked  so  w^ell  since  Violet  went  away,”  answered 
the  kindly  parson.  “It  seems  an  unnatural  thing  for  mother 
and  daughter  to  be  separated.” 

“ I dont  know  that,  dear.  The  Bible  says  a man  should  leave 
mother  and  father  and  cleave  to  his  wife.  Poor  Violet  was  a 
discordant  element  in  that  household.  Mrs.  Carmichael  must 
feel  much  happier  now  she  is  away.” 

“I can’t  tell  how  she  feels,”  answered  the  vicar,  doubtfully; 
“ but  she  does  not  look  so  happy  as  she  did  when  Violet  was  at 
home.” 

“ The  fact  is,  she  gives  way  too  much,”  exclaimed  active  lit- 
tle Mrs.  Scobel,  who  had  never  given  way  in  her  life.  ‘ When 
she  has  a headache  she  lies  in  bed,  and  has  the  Venetian  blinds 


VIXEN.  2SS 

kept  down,  just  as  if  she  were  dying.  No  wonder  she  looks  pale 
and — ” 

Etiolated,”  said  the  vicar;  “ perishing  for  want  of  liglit. 
But  I believe  it’s  moral  sunshine  that  is  wanted  there,  my  dear 
Fanny,  say  what  you  will.” 

Mr.  Scobel  was  correct  in  his  judgment.  Pamela  Carmichael 
was  a most  unhappy  woman — an  unhappy  woman  without  one 
tangible  cause  of  complaint.  True  that  her  daughter  was  ban- 
ished; but  she  was  banished  with  the  mother’s  full  consent 
Her  personal  extravagances  had  been  curtailed;  but  she  was  fain 
to  admit  that  the  curtailment  was  wise,  necessary,  and  for  her 
own  future  benefit.  Her  husband  was  all  kindness;  and  surely 
she  could  not  be  angry  with  him  if  he  seemed  to  grow  younger 
every  day — rejuvenated  by  regular  habits  and  rustic  life — 
while  in  her  wan  face  the  lines  of  care  daily  deepened,  until 
it  would  have  needed  art  far  beyond  the  power  of  any  modern 
Medea  to  conceal  Time’s  ravages.  Your  modern  Medeas  are 
such  poor  creatures — loathsome  as  Horace’s  Canid ia,  but  without 
her  genius  or  her  power. 

“1  am  getting  an  old  woman,”  sighed  Mrs.  Carmichael.  “It 
is  lucky  I am  not  without  resources  against  solitude  and  age.” 

Her  resources  were  a tepid  appreciation  of  modern  idyllic 
poetry,  as  exemplified  in  the  weaker  poems  of  Tennyson,  and 
the  works  of  Adelaide  Proctor,  and  Jean  Ingelow.  a talent  for 
embroidering  conventional  foliage  and  fiowers  on  kitchen  towel- 
ing, and  for  the  laborious  conversion  of  Nottingliam  braid 
into  Venetian  point-lace. 

She  had  taken  it  into  her  head  of  late  to  withdraw  herself  al- 
together from  society,  save  from  such  friends  who  liked  her 
well  enough,  or  were  sufficiently  perplexed  as  to  the  disposal  of 
their  lives,  to  waste  an  occasional  hour  over  gossip  and  orange 
pekoe.  She  had  now  permanently  assumed  that  role  of  an  in- 
valid which  she  had  always  somewhat  affected. 

“ I am  really  not  well  enough  to  goto  dinner-parties,  Conrad,” 
she  said,  when  her  husband  politely  argued  against  her  refusal 
of  an  invitation,  with  just  that  mild  entreaty  which  too  plainly 
means,  “ I don’t  care  a jot  whether  you  go  with  me  or  stay  at 
home.” 

“ But,  my  dear  Pamela,  a little  gayety  would  give  you  a fillip.” 

“ No,  it  would  not,  Conrad.  It  would  worry  me  to  go  to 
Lady  Ellango wan’s  in  one  of  last  season’s  dresses  ; and  I quite 
agree  with  you  that  I must  spend  no  more  money  with  Theo- 
dore.” 

“ Vfhy  not  wear  your  black  velvet?” 

“ Too  obvious  a pis  aller.  I have  not  enough  diamonds  to 
carry  off  black  velvet.” 

“But  your  fine  old  lace — ^rose-point,  I think  you  call  it — 
surely  that  would  carry  off  black  velvet  for  once  in  a way.” 

“ My  dear  Conrad,  Lady  Ellangowan  knows  my  rose- point  by 
heart.  She  always  compliments  me  about  it — an  artful  way  of 
letting  me  know  often  she  has  seen  it.  ‘ Oh,  there  is  that  rose- 

Eoint  of  yours,  dear  Mrs.  Carmichael ; it  is  too  lovely.’  I know 
er.  No,  Conrad,  I will  not  go  to  the  Ellango  wan’s  in  a dress 


234 


VIXEN. 


made  last  year,  or  in  any  rechauffe  of  velvet  and  lace.  I hope  I 
have  a proper  pride  that  would  always  preserve  me  from  humil- 
iation of  that  kind.  Besides,  T am  Dot  strong  enough  to  go 
to  parties.  You  may  not  believe  me,  Conrad,  but  I am  really 
ill.” 

The  captain  put  on  an  unhappy  look,  and  murmured  some- 
thing sympathetic  ; but  he  did  not  believe  in  the  reality  of  liis 
wife’s  ailments.  She  had  played  the  invalid  more  or  less  ever 
since  their  marriage  ; and  he  had  p*own  accustomed  to  the 
assumption  as  a part  of  his  wife’s  dail}^  existence — a mere  idio- 
syncrasy, like  her  love  of  fine  dress  and  strong  tea.  If  at  dinner 
she  ate  hardly  enough  for  a bird,  he  concluded  that  she  had 
spoiled  her  appetite  at  luncheon,  or  by  the  consumption  of  sweet 
biscuits  and  pound-cake  at  five  o’clock.  Her  refusal  of  all  in- 
vitations to  dinners  and  garden-parties  he  attributed  to  her  folly 
about  dress,  and  to  that  alone.  Those  other  reasons  which  she 
put  forward — of  weakness,  languor,  low  spirits — were  to  Captain 
Carmichael’s  mind  mere  disguises  for  temper.  She  had  not  in 
her  heart  of  hearts  forgiven  him  for  closing  Madame  Theodore’s 
account. 

Thus,  wilfully  blind  to  a truth  which  was  soon  to  become  ob- 
vious to  ail  the  world,  he  let  the  insidious  foe  steal  across  his 
threshold,  and  guessed  not  how  soon  that  dark  and  hidden  enemy 
was  to  drive  him  from  the  hearth  by  which  he  sad,  secure  in  self- 
approval and  sagacious  schemes  for  the  future.” 

‘‘Once  a week,  through  all  the  long  year,  there  had  come  a 
dutiful  letter  from  Violet  to  her  mother.  The  letters  were  often 
brief — what  could  the  girl  find  to  tell  in  her  desert  island? — but 
they  were  always  kind,  and  they  were  a source  of  comfort  to  the 
mother’s  empty  liead.  Mrs.  Carmichael  answered  unfailinglv, 
and  her  Jersey  letter  was  one  of  the  chief  events  of  each  week. 
She  was  fonder  of  her  daughter  at  a distance  than  she  had  ever 
been  when  they  were  together.  ‘‘That  will  be  something  to 
tell  Violet,  ’ she  would  say  of  any  inane  bit  of  gossip  that  was 
whispered  across  the  afternoon  tea-cups. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

A fool’s  paradise. 

At  Ashbourne  preparations  had  already  begun  for  the  wed- 
ding in  August.  It  was  to  be  a wedding  worthy  a duke’s  only 
daughter,  the  well-beloved  and  cherished  child  of  an  adoring 
father  and  mother.  Kinsfolk  and  old  friends  were  coming  from 
far  and  wide  to  assist  at  the  ceremony,  for  whom  temi)orary 
rooms  were  to  be  arranged  in  all  manner  of  places.  The  duch- 
ess’s exquisite  dairj^  was  to  be  transformed  into  a bachelor 
dormitory.  Lodges  and  gamekeepers’  cottages  w^ere  utilized. 
Every  nook  and  corner  in  the  ducal  mansion  wmuld  be  full. 

“ Why  not  rig  up  a few  hammocks  in  the  nearest  pine  planta- 
tion?” Rorie  asked,  laughing,  when  he  heard  of  all  these  doings. 
“ One  couldn’t  have  a better  place  to  sleep  on  a sultry  summer 


VIXEN. 


ZS5 


There  wns  to  be  a ball  for  the  tenantry  in  the  evening  of 
wedding-day,  in  a marquee  on  the  lawn.  The  gardens  were  to 
be  illuminated  in  a style  worthy  of  the  chateau  of  Vaux,  Avhen 
Fouquet  was  squaa dering  a nation’s  revenues  on  lamps  and 
fountains  and  venal  friends.  Lady  Mabel  protested  against  ail 
this  fuss. 

“ Dear  mamma,  I would  so  much  rather  have  been  married 
quietly,’’  she  said. 

My  dearest,  it  is  all  your  papa’s  doings.  He  is  so  proud  of 
you.  And  then  we  have  only  one  daughter;  and  she  is  not  likely 
to  be  married  more  than  once,  I hope.  Why  should  we  not  have 
all  our  friends  round  us  at  such  a time?” 

Mabel  shrugged  her  shoulders,  with  an  air  of  repugnance  to 
all  the  friends  and  all  the  fuss. 

“Marriage  is  such  a solemn  act  of  one’s  life,”  she  said.  “It 
seems  dreadful  that  it  should  be  performed  in  the  midst  of  a 
gaping,  indifferent  crowd.” 

“ My  love,  there  v/ill  not  be  a creature  present  who  can  feel 
indifferent  about  yom*  welfare,”  protested  the  devoted  mother. 
“If  our  dear  Roderick,  had  been  a more  distinguished  person, 
your  papa  would  have  had  you  married  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
There,  of  course,  there  would  have  been  a crowd  of  idle  spec- 
tators.” 

“ Poor  Roderick!”  sighed  Mabel.  “ It  is  a pity  he  is  so  utterly 
aimless.  He  raiglit  have  made  a career  for  himself  by  this  time, 
if  he  had  chosen.” 

“He  will  do  something  by  and  by,  I dare  say,”  said  the 
duchess,  cxcusingly.  “You  will  be  able  to  mould  him  as  you 
like,  pet.” 

“ I have  not  found  him  particularly  malleable,  hitherto,”  said 
Mabel. 

The  bride-elect  was  out  of  spirits,  and  inclined  to  look  de- 
spondently upon  life.  She  was  suffering  the  bitter  pain  of  dis- 
appointed hopes.  “ The  Tragedy  of  a Skeptic  Soul,”  despite  its 
depth  of  thought,  its  exquisite  typography  and  vellum-like  paper, 
had  been  a dire  and  irredeemable  failure.  The  reviewers  had 
ground  the  poor  little  aristocratic  butterfly  to  powder  upon 
the  wheel  of  ridicule.  They  had  anatomized  Lady  Mabel's 
involved  sentences,  and  laughed  at  her  erudite  phrases.  Her 
mild  adaptations  of  Greek  thought  and  fancy  had  been  found 
out,  and  held  up  to  contempt.  Her  petty  plagiarisms  from 
French  and  German  poets  had  been  traced  to  their  source.  The 
whole  work,  so  smooth  and  neatly  polished  on  the  outside,  had 
been  turned  the  seamy  side  without,  and  the  knots  and  flaws  and 
raveled  threads  had  been  exposed  without  pity. 

Happily  the  book  was  anonymous:  but  Mabel  writhed  under 
the  criticism.  There  was  the  crushing  disappointment  of  ex- 
pectations that  had  soared  high  as  the  topmost  throne  on  Par- 
nassus. She  ha‘1  a long  way  to  descend.  And  then  there  was 
the  sickening  certainty/  that  in  the  eyes  of  her  ov>m  small  circle 
she  had  made  herself  ridiculous.  Her  mother  took  those  cruel 
reviews  to  heart,  and  wept  over  them.  Tiie  duke,  a coarse 


V 


viXEm 


'jQinded  man  at  best,  with  a soul  hardly  above  ^ano  and  chemi- 
cal composts,  laughed  aloud  at  his  poor  little  girl’s  failure. 

“ It’s  a sad  disappointment,  I dare  say,”  he  said,  “ but  never 
mind,  my  pet,  you’ll  do  better  next  time,  1‘ve  no  doubt.  Or  if 
you  don’t,  it  doesn’t  much  matter.  Other  people  have  fancied 
themselves  poets,  and  have  been  deceived,  before  to-day.” 

‘‘  Those  horrid  reviewers  don't  understand  her  poetry,”  pro- 
tested the  duchess,  who  would  have  been  hard  pushed  to  com- 
prehend it  herself,  but  who  thought  it  was  a critic’s  business  to 
understand  everything. 

‘‘  I’m  afraid  I have  written  above  their  heads,”  Lady  Mabel 
said,  piteously. 

Roderick  Vawdrey  was  worst  of  all. 

‘‘  Didn’t  I tell  you  ‘ The  Skeptic  Soul’  was  too  fine  for  ordi- 
nary intellects,  Mab?”  he  said.  “You  lost  yourself  in  an  ocean  of 
obscurity.  You  knew  what  you  meant,  but  there’s  no  man  ahve 
who  could  follow  you.  You  ought  to  have  remembered  Vol- 
taire’s definition  of  a metaphysical  discussion,  a conversation  in 
which  the  man  who  is  talked  to  doesn’t  understand  the  man  who 
talks,  and  the  man  who  talks  doesn’t  understand  himself.  You 
must  take  a simpler  subject,  and  use  plainer  English,  if  you 
want  to  please  the  multitude.” 

Mabel  had  told  her  lover  before  that  she  did  not  aspire  to  please 
the  multitude,  that  she  would  have  esteemed  such  cheap  and 
tawdry  success  a humiliating  failure.  It  was  almost  better  not 
to  be  read  at  all  than  to  be  appreciated  only  by  the  average  Mudie 
subscriber.  But  she  would  have  liked  some  one  to  read  her 
poems.  She  would  have  liked  critics  to  praise  and  understand 
her.  She  would  have  liked  to  have  her  own  small  world  of  ad- 
mirers, an  esoteric  few,  the  salt  of  the  earth,  literary  essenes, 
holding  themselves  apart  from  the  vulgar  herd.  It  was  dread- 
ful to  find  herself  on  a height  as  lonely  as  one  of  those  plateaux 
in  the  Tyrolean  Alps  where  the  cattle  crop  a scanty  herbage  in 
summer,  and  where  the  Ice  King  reigns  alone  through  the  long 
winter. 

“You  are  mistaken,  Roderick,”  Mabel  said,  with  chilling 
dignity;  “I  have  friends  who  can  understand  and  admire 
my  poetry,  incomprehensible  and  uninteresting  as  it  may  be 
to  you.” 

“ Dear  Mabel,  I never  said  it  was  uninteresting,”  Roderick 
cried,  humbly;  “ everything  you  do  must  be  interesting  to  me. 
But  I frankly  own  I do  not  understand  your  verses  as  clearly  as 
I think  aU  verses  should  be  understood.  Why  should  I keep  ail 
my  frankness  till  after  the  1st  of  August?  Why  should  the 
lover  be  less  sincere  than  the  husband  ? I will  be  truthful,  even 
at  the  risk  of  offending  you.” 

“ Pray  do,”  cried  Mabel,  with  ill -suppressed  irritation.  “ Sin- 
cerity is  such  a delightful  thing.  No  doubt  my  critics  are  sincere. 
They  give  me  the  honest,  undisguised  truth.” 

Rorie  saw  that  his  betrotlied’s  literary  failure  was  a subject  to 
be  carefully  avoided  in  future. 

“My  poor  Vixen,”  he  said  to  himself,  with,  oh!  what  deepre- 


VIXEN.  287 

gret,  “ perhaps  it  was  not  one  of  the  least  of  your  charms  that 
you  never  wrote  poetry.” 

Lord  Mallow  was  coming  to  Ashbourne  for  the  fortnight  before 
the  wedding.  He  had  made  himself  wondrously  agreeable  to 
the  duke,  and  the  duke  had  invited  him.  The  House  A\ould 
be  up  by  that  time.  It  was  a delightful  season  for  the 
Forest.  The  heather  would  be  in  bloom  on  all  the  open 
heights,  the  glades  of  Mark  Ash  would  be  a solemn  world  of 
greenery  and  shadow,  a delicious  place  for  picnics,  flirtation,  and 
gypsy  tea-drinkings.  Lord  Mallow  had  only  seen  the  Forest  in 
the  winter.  It  would  be  a grand  opportunity  for  him. 

He  came,  and  Lady  Mabel  received  him  with  a sad,  sweet 
smile.  The  reviews  had  all  appeared  by  this  time;  and,  except 
in  the  Went  Dulmarsh  Gazette  and  the  Ratcliff  Highway  Regis- 
ter, there  had  not  been  one  favorable  notice. 

“ There  is  a dreadful  unanimity  about  my  critics,  is  there 
not?”  said  t1)e  stricken  poetess,  when  she  and  Lord  Mallow 
found  themselves  alone  together  in  one  of  the  orchid-houses, 
breathing  a perfumed  atmosphere  at  eighty  degrees,  vaporous, 
balmy,  slumberous. 

“You  have  made  a tremendous  mistake.  Lady  Mabel,”  said 
Lord  Mallow. 

“How  do  you  mean?” 

“ You  have  given  the  world  your  great  book  without  first  edu- 
cating your  public  to  receive  and  understand  it.  If  Browning 
had  done  the  same  thing — if  Browning  had  burst  at  once  upon 
the  world  with  ‘The  Ring  and  the  Book,’  he  would  have  been 
as  great  a failure  as — as — you  at  present  imagine  yourself  to  be. 
You  should  have  sent  forth  something  smaller.  You  should  have 
made  the  reading  world  familiar  with  a style  too  original,  and 
of  too  large  a power  and  scope,  to  please  quickly.  A volume  of 
ballads  and  idyls — a short  story  in  simple  verse — would  have 
prepared  the  way  for  your  dramatic  poem.  Suppose  Goethe  had 
begun  his  literary  career  with  the  second  part  of  ‘Faust!’  He 
was  too  wise  for  that,  and  wrote  hhnself  into  popularity  with  a 
clap-trap  novel.” 

‘•I  could  not  write  a clap- trap  novel,  or  clap-trap  verses,” 
sighed  Lady  Mabel.  “ If  I cannot  soar  above  the  clouds,  I will 
never  spread  my  poor  little  wings  again.” 

“ Then  you  must  be  content  to  accept  your  failure  as  an  evi- 
dence of  the  tendencies  of  an  essentially  Philistine  age — an  age 
in  which  people  admire  Brown,  and  Jones,  and  Robinson.” 

Here  Lord  Mallow  gave  a string  of  names,  sacrificing  the 
most  famous  reputations  of  the  age  to  Mabel  Ashbourne’s 
vanity. 

This  brief  conversation  in  the  orchid-house  was  the  first  heal- 
ing balm  that  had  been  applied  to  the  bleeding  heart  of  the 
poetess.  She  was  deeply  grateful  to  Lord  Mallow.  This  was  in- 
deed sympathy.  How  different  from  Roderick’s  clumsy  advice 
and  obtrusive  affectation  of  candor!  Mabel  determined  that  she 
would  do  her  best  to  make  Lord  Mallow’s  visit  pleasant.  She 
gave  him  a good  deal  of  her  society,  in  fact  all  she  could  spare 
from  Roderick*  who  was  not  an  exacting  Ibver.  They  were  so 


288 


VIXEN. 


soon  to  be  married  that  really  there  was  no  occasion  for  them  to 
be  greedy  of  tete-a-tete  companionship.  They  would  have 
enough  of  each  other’s  company  among  the  Norwegian  fjords. 

Lord  Mallow  did  not  care  about  riding  under  an  almost  trop- 
ical sun,  nor  did  he  care  to  expose  his  horse  to  the  exasperating 
attacks  of  forest-flies;  so  he  went  about  with  the  duchess  and  her 
daughter  in  Lady  Mabel’s  pony  carriage — he  saw  schools  and 
cottages — and  told  the  two  ladies  all  the  grand  things  he  meant 

to  do  on  his  Irish  estate  when  he  had  leisure  to  do  them. 

% 

“ You  must  wait  till  you  are  married,”  said  the  duchess,  good- 
naturedly.  “Ladies  understand  these  details  so  much  &tter 
than  gentlemen.  Mabel  more  than  half  planned  those  cottages 
you  admired  just  now.  She  took  the  drawings  out  of  the  archi- 
tect’s hands,  and  altered  them  according  to  her  own  taste.” 

“And  as  a natural  result  the  cottages  are  perfection!”  ex- 
claimed Lord  Mallow. 

That  visit  to  Ashbourne  was  one  of  the  most  memorable  periods 
in  Lord  Mallow’s  life.  He  was  an  impressible  young  mar,  and 
he  had  been  unconsciouslv  falling  deeper  in  love  \\  ith  Lady 
Mabel  every  day  during  the  last  three  months.  Her  delicate 
beauty,  her  culture,  her  elegance,  her  rank,  ail  charmed  and 
fascinated  him;  but  her  sympathy  Ayith  Erin  was  irresistible.  It 
was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had  been  in  love,  by  a great  many 
times.  The  list  of  the  idols  he  had  worshiped  stretched  back- 
ward to  the  dim  remoteness  of  boyliood.  But  to-day,  awakening 
all  at  once  to  a keen  perception  of  his  hapless  state,  he  told  him- 
self that  he  had  never  loved  before  as  he  loved  now. 

He  had  been  hard  hit  by  Miss  Tempest.  Yes,  he  acknowledged 
that  past  weakness.  He  had  thought  her  fairest  and  most  de- 
lightful among  women,  and  he  had  left  the  Abbey  House  de- 
jected and  undone.  But  he  had  quickly  recovered  from  the 
brief  fever;  and  now,  reverentially  admiring  Lady  Mabel’s  prim 
propriety,  he  wondered  that  he  could  have  ever  seriously  offered 
himself  to  a girl  of  Vixen’s  undisciplined  and  unbroken  char- 
acter. 

“ I should  have  been  a miserable  man  by  this  time  if  she  had 
accepted  me,”  he  tliought.  “ She  did  not  care  a straw  about  the 
People  of  Ireland.” 

He  was  deeply,  hopelessly,  irrecoverably  in  love;  and  the  lady 
he  loved  was  to  be  married  to  another  man  in  less  than  a week. 
The  situation  was  too  awful.  What  could  such  a woman  as 
Mabel  Ashbourne  see  in  such  a man  as  Roderick  Yawdrey. 
That  is  a kind  of  question  which  has  been  asked  very  often  in 
the  history  of  men  and  women.  Lord  Mallow  could  find  no  sat- 
isfactory answer  thereto.  Mr.  Yawdrey  was  well  enough  in  liis 
way — he  was  good-looking,  sufficiently  well-bred;  he  rode  well, 
was  a first-rate  shot,  and  could  give  an  average  player  odds  at 
billiards.  Surely  these  were  small  claims  to  the  love  of  a tenth 
muse,  a rarely  accomplished  and  perfect  woman.  If  Lord  Mal- 
low, in  his  heart  of  hearts,  thought  no  great  things  of  Lady 
Mabel’s  poetic  effusions,  be  not  the  less  respected  her  for  the 
effort,  the  high-souled  endeavor,  A woman  who  could  read 


VIXEN.  289 

Euripides,  who  knew  all  that  was  best  in  modern  literature,  was 
a woman  for  a husband  to  be  proud  of. 

In  this  desperate  and  for  the  most  part  unsuspected  condition 
of  mind.  Lord  Mallow  hung  upon  Lady  Mabel’s  footsteps  during 
the  days  immediately  before  the  wedding.  Eoderickwas  super- 
intending the  alterations  at  Briarwood,  which  were  being  car- 
ried on  upon  rather  an  extravagant  scale,  to  make  the  mansion 
worthy  of  the  bride.  Lord  Mallow  was  ahvays  at  hand,  in  the 
orchid-houses,  carrying  scissors  and  adjusting  the  hose;  in  the 
library,  in  the  gardens,  in  the  boudoir.  He  was  drinking 
greedily  of  the  sweet  poison.  This  fool’s  paradise  of  a few  days 
must  end  in  darkness,  desolation,  despair — everything  dreadful 
beginning  with  d ; but  the  paradise  was  so  delicious  an  abode 
that  although  an  angel  with  a flaming  sword,  in  the  shape  of 
conscience,  was  always  standing  at  the  gate,  Lord  Mallow  would 
not  be  thrust  out.  He  remained;  in  deflance  of  conscience,  and 
honor,  and  all  those  good  sentiments  tliat  should  have  counseled 
his  speedy  departure. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

‘Ht  might  have  been.” 

“ They  are  the  most  curious  pair  of  lovers  I ever  saw  in  my 
life,”  said  one  of  the  visitors  at  Ashbourne,  a young  lady  who 
had  been  engaged  to  be  married  more  than  once,  and  might 
fairly  consider  herself  an  authority  upon  such  matters.  “One 
never  sees  them  together.” 

“ They  are  cousins,”  replied  her  companion.  “ What  can  you 
expect  from  a courtship  between  cousins  ? It  must  be  the  most 
humdrum  affair  possible.” 

“ All  courtships  are  humdrum  unless  there  is  opposition  from 
parents,  or  something  out  of  the  common  order  to  enliven  them,” 
said  somebody  else. 

The  speakers  were  a party  of  young  ladies,  who  were  getting 
through  an  idle  hour  after  breakfast  in  the  billiard-room. 

“ Lady  Mabel  is  just  the  sort  of  girl  no  rrian  could  be  desper- 
ately in  love  with,”  said  another.  “She  is  very  pretty,  and  ele- 
gant, and  accomplished,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing — ^but  she  is  so 
overpoweringly  well  satisfied  with  herself  that  it  seems  super- 
fluous for  any  one  to  admire  her.” 

“ In  spite  of  that  I know  of  some  one  in  this  house  who  does 
immensely  admire  her,”  asserted  the  young  lady  who  had  spoken 
first.  “ Much  more  than  I should  ai^prove,  if  I were  Mr.  Vaw- 
drey.” 

“I  think  I know — ” began  somebody,  and  then  abruptly  re- 
markeii:  “ What  a too  ridiculous  stroke!  And  I really  thought 
I was  going  to  make  a cannon.” 

This  sudden  change  in  the  current  of  the  talk  was  due  to  the 
appearance  of  the  subject  of  this  friendly  disquisition.  Lady 
Mabel  had  that  moment  entered,  followed  by  Lord  Mallow,  not 
intent  on  billiards,  like  the  frivolous  damsels  assembled  round 
the  table.  There  were  book-cases  all  along  one  side  of  the  bill- 


290 


VIXEN. 


iara-room,  containing  the  surplus  books  that  had  overrun  the 
shelves  in  the  library,  and  Mabel  had  come  to  look  for  a particu- 
lar volume  among  these.  It  was  a treatise  upon  the  antiquities 
of  Ireland.  Lord  Mallow  and  Lady  Mabel  had  been  disputing 
about  the  Eound  Towers. 

“ Of  course  you  are  right,”  said  the  Irishman,  when  she  had 
triumphantly  exhibited  a page  which  supported  her  side  of  the 
argument.  “What  a wonderful  memory  you  have!  What  a 
wife  you  would  make  for  a statesman!  You  would  be  worth 
half  a dozen  secretaries!  ’ 

Mabel  blushed,  and  srdiled  faintly,  with  lowered  eyelids. 

“ Do  you  remember  that  concluding  picture  in  My  Novel, she 
asked,  “ where  Violante  tempts  Harley  Lestrange  from  his  idle 
musing  over  Horace  to  toil  through  blue-books;  and,  when  slie 
is  stealing  softly  from  the  room,  he  detains  her  and  bids  her 
copy  an  extract  for  him  ? ‘ Do  you  think  I would  go  through 
this  labor,’  he  says,  ‘if  you  were  not  to  halve  this  success? 
Halve  the  labor  as  well.’  I have  always  envied  Yiolante  that 
moment  in  her  life.” 

“ And  who  would  not  envy  Harley  such  a wife  as  Violante,” 
returned  Lord  Mallow,  “ if  she  was  like — the  woman  I pictuie 
her?’' 

Three  hours  later  Lord  Mallow  and  Lady  Mabel  met  hy  acci- 
dent in  the  garden.  It  was  an  afternoon  of  breathless  heat 
and  golden  sunlight,  the  blue  ether  without  a cloud — a day  on 
which  the  most  restless  spirit  might  be  content  to  yield  to  the 
drowsiness  of  the  atmosphere,  and  lie  at  ease  upon  the  sunburnt 
grass  and  bask  in  the  glory  of  summer.  Lord  Mallow  had  never 
felt  so  idle  in  the  whole  course  of  his  vigorous  young  life. 

“I  don’t  know  what  has  come  to  me,”  he  said  to  himself;  “I 
can’t  settle  to  any  kind  of  work ; and  I don’t  care  a straw  for 
sight-seeing  with  a pack  of  nonentities.” 

A party  had  gone  off  in  a drag,  soon  after  breakfast,  to  see 
some  distant  ruins;  and  Lord  Mallow  had  refused  to  be  of  that 
party,  though  it  included  some  of  the  prettiest  girls  at  Ash- 
bourne. He  had  stayed  at  home,  on  pretense  of  writing  impor- 
tant letters,  but  had  not,  so  far,  penned  a line.  “ It  must  be  the 
weather,”  said  Lord  Mallow. 

An  hour  or  so  after  luncheon  he  strolled  out  into  the  gardens, 
having  given  up  ail  idea  of  writing  those  letters,  There  was  a 
wide  lawn,  that  sloped  from  the  terrace  in  front  of  the  drawing- 
room windows,  a lawn  encircled  by  a belt  of  carefully-chosen 
timber.  It  was  not  very  old  timber,  but  it  was  sufficiently  um- 
brageous. There  were  tulip-trees,  and  copper-beeches,  and  Dou- 
glas pines,  and  deodoras.  There  were  shrubs  of  every  kind,  and 
winding  paths  under  the  trees,  and  rustic  benches  here  and 
there,  to  repose  the  wearied  traveler. 

On  one  of  these  benches,  placed  in  a delicious  spot,  shaded  by 
a group  of  pines,  commanding  the  wide  view  of  valley  and  dis- 
tant hill  far  away  toward  Ringwood,  Lord  Mallow  found  Lady 
Mabel  seated  reading.  She  was  looking  delightfully  cool  amidst 
the  sultry  heat  of  the  scene,  perf€Ctly  dressed  in  soft  white  mus- 
lin, with  much  adornment  of  delicate  lace  and  pale-hued  ribbon; 


VIXEN. 


291 


but  she  was  not  looking  happy.  She  was  gazing  at  the  open 
volume  on  her  knee,  with  fixed  and  dreamy  eyes  that  saw  not 
the  page;  and  as  Lord  Mallow  came  very  near,  with  steps  that 
made  no  sound  on  the  fallen  pine-needles,  he  saw  that  there 
were  tears  upon  her  drooping  eyelids. 

There  are  moments  in  every  man’s  life  when  impulse  is 
stronger  than  discretion.  Lord  Mallow  gave  the  reins  to  im- 
pulse now,  and  seated  himself  by  Lady  Mabel’s  side,  and  took 
her  hand  in  his,  with  an  air  of  sympathy  so  real  that  the  lady 
forgot  to  be  offended. 

“ Forgive  me  for  having  surpiised  your  tears,”  he  murmured, 
gentlv. 

“ l am  very  foolish,”  she  said,  blushing  deeply  as  she  became 
aware  of  the  hand  clasping  hers,  and  suddenly  withdrawing  her 
)wn;  but  there  are  passages  of  Dante  that  are  too  pathetic.” 

“Oh,  it  was  Dante!”  exclaimed  Lord  Mallow,  with  a disap- 
pointed air. 

He  looked  down  at  the  page  on  her  lap. 

“Yes,  naturally.” 

She  had  been  reading  about  Paolo  and  Francesca — that  one 
episode,  in  all  the  catalogue  of  sin  and  sorrow,  which  melts 
every  heart;  a page  at  which  the  volume  seems  to  open  of  its 
own  accord. 

Lord  Mallow  leaned  down  and  read  the  lines  in  a low  voice, 
slowly,  with  considerable  feeling;  and  then  he  looked  softly  up 
at  Mabel  Ashbourne,  and  at  the  landscape  lying  below  them,  in 
all  the  glow  and  glory  of  the  summer  light,  and  looked  back  to 
the  lady,  with  his  hand  still  on  the  book. 

The  strangeness  of  the  situation;  they  two  alone  in  the  garden, 
unseen,  unheard  by  human  eye  or  ear;  the  open  book  between 
them — a subtle  bond  of  union — hinting  at  forbidden  passion. 

“They  were  deeply  to  be  pitied,”  said  Lord  Mallow,  meaning 
the  guilty  lovers. 

“It  was  very  sad,”  murmured  Lady  Mabel. 

“ But  they  were  neither  the  first  nor  the  last  who  have  found 
out  too  late  that  they  were  created  to  be  happy  in  each  other’s 
love,  and  had  by  an  accident  missed  that  supreme  chance  of 
happiness,”  said  Lord  Mallow,  with  veiled  intention. 

Mabel  sighed,  and  took  the  book  from  the  gentleman’s  hand, 
and  drew  a little  further  off  on  the  bench.  She  was  not  the  kind 
of  young  woman  to  yield  tremblingly  to  tlie  first  whistler  of  an 
unauthorized  love.  It  was  all  very  well  to  admire  Francesca, 
upon  strictly  aesthetic  grounds,  as  the  perfection  of  erring 
womanhood,  beautiful  even  in  her  guilt.  Francesca  had  lived 
so  long  ago,  in  days  so  entirely  mediaeval,  that  one  could 
afford  to  regard  her  with  indulgent  pity.  But  it  was  not  to  be 
supposed  that  a modern  duke’s  daughter  was  going  to  follow 
that  unfortunate  young  woman’s  example  and  break  plighted 
vows.  Betrothal,  in  the  eyes  of  so  exalted  a moralist  as  Lady 
Mabel,  was  a tie  but  one  degree  less  sacred  than  marriage. 

“Why  did  you  not  goto  see  the  ruins?”  she  asked,  resum- 
ing her  society  tone. 

“ Because  I was  in  a humor  in  which  ruins  would  have  been 


292 


VIXEN. 


unutterably  odious.  Indeed,  Lady  Mabel,  I am  just  now  very 
much  of  Macbeth’s  temper,  when  he  began  to  be  aweary  of  the 

SUD,” 

“ Has  the  result  of  the  session  disappointed  you?’^ 

“Naturally.  When  was  t^'^at  ever  otherwise?  Parliament 
opens  full  of  promise,  like  a young  king  who  has  just  ascended 
the  throne,  and  everybody  is  to  be  made  happy ; all  burdens  are 
to  be  lightened,  the  seeds  of  all  good  things  th'at  have  been  hid- 
den deep  in  earth  through  the  slow  centuries  are  to  germinate 
all  at  once,  and  blossom,  and  bear  fruit.  And  the  session  comes 
to  an  end;  and,  lo!  a great  many  good  things  have  been  talked 
about,  and  no  good  thing  has  been  done.  That  is  in  the  nature 
of  things.  No,  Lady  Mabel,  it  is  not  that  which  makes  me  un- 
happy.” 

He  waited  for  her  to  ask  him  what  his  trouble  was,  but  she 
kept  silence. 

“No,”  he  repeated,  “it  is  not  that.” 

Again  there  was  no  reply;  and  he  went  on  awkwardly,  like  an 
actor  who  has  missed  his  cue: 

“ Since  I have  known  you  I have  been  at  once  too  happy  and 
too  wretched.  Happy — unspeakably  happy  in  your  society";  mis- 
erable in  the  knowledge  that  I could  never  be  more  to  you  than 
a unit  in  the  crowd.” 

“You  were  a great  deal  more  to  me  than  that,”  said  Mabel, 
softly.  She  had  been  on  her  guard  against  him  just  now,  but 
when  he  thus  abased  himself  before  her  she  took  pity  upon  him, 
and  became  dangerously  amiable.  “I  shall  never  forget  your 
kindness  about  those  wretched  verses.” 

“ I will  not  hear  you  speak  ill  of  them,”  cried  Lord  Mallow,  in- 
dignantly. “You  have  but  shared  the  common  fate  of  genius, 
in  having  a mind  m advance  of  your  age.” 

Lady  Mabel  breathed  a gentle  sigh  of  renignation. 

“lam  not  so  weak  as  to  think  myself  a genius,”  she  mur- 
mured; “but  I venture  to  hope  my  poor  verses  will  be  better 
understood  twenty  years  hence  than  they  are  now.” 

“Undoubtedly!”  cried  Lord  Mallow,  with  conviction.  “Look 
at  Wordsworth;  in  his  lifetime  the  general  reading  public  con- 
sidered him  a prosy  old  gentleman,  wlio  twaddled  pleasantly 
about  lakes  and  mountains,  and  pretty  little  peasant  girls.  The 
world  only  awakened  ten  years  ago  to  the  fact  of  his  being  a 
great  poet  and  a sublime  philosopher;  and  I shouldn’t  be  very 
much  surprised,”  added  Lord  Mallow,  meditatively,  “ if  in  ten 
years  more  the  world  were  to  go  to  sleep  again  and  forget 
him.” 

Lady  Mabel  looked  at  her  watch. 

“ f think  I will  go  in  and  give  mamma  her  afternoon  cup  of 
tea,”  she  said. 

“ Don’t  go  yet,”  pleaded  Lord  Mallow,  “ it  is  only  four,  and  I 
know  the  duchess  does  not  take  tea  till  five.  Give  me  one  of 
your  last  hours.  A lady  who  is  just  going  to  be  married  is  some- 
thing like  Socrates  after  his  sentence.  Her  fiiends  surround 
her;  she  is  in  their  midst,  smiling,  serene,  diffusing  sweetness 
and  light;  but  they  know  she  is  going  from  them— they  are  to 


VIXEN.  293 

lose  her,  yes,  to  lose  her  almost  as  utterly  as  if  she  were  doomed 
to  die.” 

“That  is  taking  a very  dismal  view  of  marriage,”  said  Mabel, 
pale,  and  trilling  nervously  with  her  watch-chain. 

Tiiis  was  the  first  time  Lord  Mallow  had  spoken  to  her  of  the 
approaching  event. 

“ Is  it  not  like  death  ? Does  it  not  bring  change  and  parting 
to  old  friends?  When  you  are  Lady  Mabel  Vawdrey,  can  I ever 
be  with  you  as  I am  now  ? You  will  have  new  interests,  you 
will  be  shat  in  by  a net-work  of  new  ties.  I shall  come  some 
morning  to  see  you  amidst  your  new  surroundings,  and  shall 
find  a stranger.  My  Lady  Mabel  will  be  dead  and  buried.” 

Tliere  is  no  knowing  how  long  Lord  Mellow  might  have  mean- 
dered on  in  this  dismal  strain,  if  be  had  not  been  seasonably  in- 
terrupted by  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Vawdrey,  who  came  sauntering 
along  the  winding  shrubbery-walk,  with  his  favorite  pointer 
Hecate  at  his  heels.  He  advanced  toward  his  betrothed  at  the 
leisurely  pace  of  a man  whose  courtship  is  over,  whose  fate  is 
sealed,  and  from  whom  society  exacts  nothing  further,  except  a 
decent  compliance  with  the  arrangements  other  people  make  for 
him. 

He  seemed  in  no  wise  disconcerted  at  finding  his  sweetheart 
and  Lord  Mallow  seated  side  by  side,  alone,  in  that  romantic  and 
solitary  spot.  He  pressed  Mabel’s  hand  kindly,  and  gave  the 
Irishman  a friendly  nod. 

“ What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  all  the  morning, 
Roderick?”  asked  Lady  Mabel,  witli  that  half -reproachful  air 
which  is  almost  the  normal  expression  of  a betrothed  young 
lady  in  lier  converse  with  her  lover. 

“ Oh,  pottering  about  at  Briarwood.  Tije  w’orkmen  are  such 
fools.  I am  making  some  slight  alterations  in  the  stables,  on  a 
plan  of  my  own — putting  in  mangers,  and  racks,  and  pillars, 
and  partitions,  from  the  St.  Pancras  Iron-works,  making  sani- 
tary improvements,  and  so  on — and  I have  to  contend  with  so 
much  idiocy  in  our  local  workmen.  If  I did  not  stand  by  and 
see  drain-pipes  put  in  and  connections  made,  I believe  the  whole 
thing  would  go  wrong.” 

“ It  must  be  very  dreadful  for  you,”  exclaimed  Lady  Mabel. 

“ It  must  be  intolerable!”  cried  Lord  Mallow;  “ what,  w^hen 
the  moments  are  golden,  when  ‘ Love  takes  up  the  glass  of 
Time,  amd  turns  it  in  his  glo\Ying  hands,’  when  ‘ Love  takes  up 
the  harp  of  life,  and  smites  on  all  the  chords  with  might,’  you 
have  to  devote  your  morning  to  watching  the  laj/ing  of  drain- 
pipes and  digging  of  sewers!  I cannot  imagine  a more  afflicted 
man.” 

Lady  Mabel  saw  the  sneer,  but  her  betrothed  calmly  ignored  it. 

“Of  course  it's  a nuisance,”  he  said,  carelessly;  “but  I had 
rather  be  my  own  clerk  of  the  works  than  have  the  whole  thing 
botched.  I thought  you  were  going  toWellbrook  Abbey  with 
the  house  party,  Mabel  ?” 

“ I know  every  stone  of  the  Abbey  by  heart.  No,  I have  been 
dawdling  about  the  grounds  all  the  afternoon.  It  is  much  too 
warm  for  riding  or  driving.” 


294 


VIXEN. 


Lady  Mabel  strangled  an  incipient  yawn.  She  had  nor  yawned 
once  in  all  her  talk  with  Lord  Mallow.  Roiie  stifled  another, 
and  Lord  Malk»w  walked  up  and  down  among  the  pine-needles, 
like  a caged  lion.  It  would  have  been  polite  to  leave  the  lovers 
to  themselves,  perhaps.  They  might  have  family  matters  to 
discuss,  settlements,  wedding  presents.  Heaven  knows  what. 
But  Lord  Mallow  was  not  going  to  leave  them  alone.  He  was 
in  a savage  humor,  in  which  the  petty  rules  and  regulations  of  a 
traditionary  etiquette  were  as  nothing  to  him.  So  he  staid, 
pacing  restlessly,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  inwardly 
delighted  at  the  stupid  spectacle  presented  by  tl.e  affianced 
lovers,  who  had  nothing  to  say  to  each  other,  and  were  evidently 
bored  to  the  last  degree  by  their  own  society. 

“ This  is  the  deplorable  result  of  trying  to  ferment  the  small  beer 
of  cousinly  affection  into  the  Maronean  wine  of  passionate  love,” 
thought  Lord  Mallow.  “Idiotic  parents  have  imagined  that 
these  two  people  ought  to  marry,  because  they  were  brought  up 
together,  and  the  little  girl  took  kindly  to  the  little  boy.  What 
little  girl  does  not  take  kindly  to  anything  in  the  shape  of  a 
boy,  when  they  are  both  in  the  nursery?  Hence  these  tears.” 

“ I am  going  to  ]DOur  out  mamma’s  tea,”  Lady  Mabel  said, 
presently,  keenly  sensible  of  the  stupidity  of  her  position. 
“Will  you  come,  Roderick V Mamma  will  be  glad  to  know  that 
you  are  alive.  She  was  wondering  about  you  all  the  time  we 
were  at  luncheon.” 

“ I ought  not  to  have  been  off  duty  so  long,”  Mr.  Vawdrey 
answered,  meekly,  “but  if  you  could  only  imagine  the  stupidity 
of  those  brick-layers!  The  day  before  yesterday  I found  half  a 
dozen  stalwart  fellows  sitting  upon  a wall,  with  their  hands  in 
their  corduroy  pockets,  smoking  short  pipes,  and,  I believe,  talk- 
ing politics.  They  pretended  to  be  at  a stand-still  because  their 
satellites — their  ames  damnees,  the  men  wiio  hold  their  hods  and 
mix  their  mortar — had  not  turned  up.  ‘ Don’t  disturb  your- 
selves, gentlemen,’  I said.  ‘ There’s  nothing  like  taking  things 
easy.  It’s  a time- job.  I’ll  send  you  the  morning  papers  and  a 
can  of  beer.’  And  so  I did,  and  since  that  day,  do  you  know, 
the  fellows  have  worked  twdce  as  hard.  They  don’t  mind  being 
bullied,  but  they  can’t  stand  chaff.” 

“What  an  interesting  bit  of  character,”  said  Lady  Mabel, 
with  a faintly  perceptible  sneer.  “ Worthy  of  Henri  Constant.” 

“ May  I come  to  the  duchess’s  kettledrum?”  asked  Lord  Mal- 
low, humbly. 

“ By  all  means,”  answered  Mabel.  “ How  fond  you  gentlemen 
pretend  to  be  of  afternoon  tea  nov/adays!  But  I don’t  believe  it 
is  the  tea  you  really  care  for.  It  is  the  gossip  you  all  like. 
Darwin  has  found  out  that  the  male  sex  is  the  vain  sex,  but  I 
don't  think  he  has  gone  so  far  as  to  discover  another  great  truth. 
It  is  the  superior  sex  for  whom  scandal  has  the  keenest  charm.” 

“ I have  never  heard  the  faintest  hiss  of  the  serpent  slander  at 
the  duchess’s  tea-table,”  said  Lord  Mallow. 

“No;  we  are  dreadfully  behind  the  age,”  assented  Lady  Mabel. 
“ We  contiive  to  exist  without  thinking  ill  of  our  neighbors.” 

They  all  three  sauntered  toward  the  house,  choosing  the  shel- 


VIXEN. 


295 


tered  ways,  and  skirting  the  broad  sunny  lawn,  whose  velvet 
sward,  green  even  in  this  tropical  July,  was  the  lesult  of  the 
latest  improvements  in  cultivation,  ranging  from  such  simple 
stimulants  as  bone-dust  and  wood-ashes,  to  the  last  development 
of  agricultural  chemistry.  Lady  Mabel  and  her  companions 
were  for  the  most  part  silent  during  this  leisurely  walk  home, 
and,  when  one  of  them  hazarded  an  observation,  the  attempt  at 
conversation  had  a forced  air,  and  failed  to  call  forth  any  re- 
sponsive brilliancy  in  the  others 

The  duchess  looked  provokingly  cool  and  comfortable  in  her 
morning-room,  which  was  an  airy  apartment  on  the  first  floor, 
with  a wide  window  opening  upon  a rustic  balcony,  varandaed  and 
trellised,  garlanded  with  passion-flowers  and  Australian  clema- 
tis, and  altogether  sheltered  from  sun  and  wind.  The  most  re- 
poseful sofas,  the  roomiest  arm-chairs  in  all  the  house,  were  to 
be  found  here,  covered  with  a cool  shining  chintz  of  the  good 
old-fashioned  sort — apple-blossoms  and  spring-flowers  on  a white 
ground. 

A second  window  in  a corner  opened  into  a small  fernery,  in 
which  there  was  a miniature  water-fall  that  trickled  with  a 
slumberous  sound  over  moss  grown  rock- work.  There  could 
hardly  have  been  a better  room  for  afternoon  tea  on  a sultry 
summer  day;  and  afternoon  tea  at  Ashbourne  included  iced  cof- 
fee, and  the  finest  peaches  and  nectarines  that  were  grown  in 
the  county;  and  when  the  duke  happened  to  drop  in  for  a chat 
with  his  wife  and  daughter,  sometimes  went  as  far  as  sherry  and 
Angustura  bitters. 

The  duchess  received  her  daughter  with  her  usual  delighted 
a^r,  as  if  the  ethereal-looking  young  lady  in  India  muslin  had  ver- 
ily been  a goddess. 

“ J hope  you  have  not  been  fatiguing  yourself  in  the  orchid- 
houses  on  such  an  afternoon  as  this,  my  pet,”  she  said,  anx- 
iously. 

“No,  indeed,  mamma;  it  is  much  too  warm  for  the  orchid - 
houses,  I have  been  in  the  shrubbery  reading,  or  trying  to  read, 
but  it  is  dreadful  sleepy  weather.  We  shall  all  be  glad  to  get 
some  tea.  Oh,  here  it  comes!  ” 

A match  pair  of  footmen  brought  a pair  of  silver  trays:  caddy, 
kettle  and  tea-pot,  and  cups  and  saucers  on  one,  and  a lavish 
pile  of  fruit,  such  as  Lance  would  have  loved  to  paint,  on  the 
other. 

Lady  Mabel  took  up  the  quaint  little  oilver  caddy  and  made 
the  tea.  Roderick  began  to  eat  peaches.  Lord  Mallow,  true  to 
his  nationality,  seated  himself  by  the  duchess,  and  paid  her  a 
compliment. 

“ There  are  some  more  parcels  for  you,  Mabel,”  said  the  fond 
mother,  presently,  glancing  at  a side-table,  where  sundry  neatly 
papered  packets  suggested  jewelry. 

“More  presents,  I suppose,”  the  young  lady  murmured,  lan- 
guidly. “ Now  I do  hope  people  have  not  sent  me  anymore  jew- 
elry. 1 wear  so  little,  and  I — ” 

Have  so  much,  she  v/as  going  to  say,  but  checked  herself  on 
the  verge  of  a remark  that  savored  of  vulgar  arrogance. 


296 


VIXEN. 


She  went  on  with  the  tea- making,  uncurious  as  to  the  inside 
of  those  dainty-looking  parcels.  She  had  been  surfeited  with 
presents  before  she  left  her  nursery.  A bracelet  or  a locket 
more  or  less  could  not  make  the  slightest  difference  in  her  feel- 
ings. She  entertained  a condescending  pity  for  the  foolish 
people  who  squandered  their  money  in  buying  her  such  things, 
when  they  ought  to  know  that  she  had  a superfluity  of  much 
finer  jewels  than  any  they  could  give  her. 

‘•Don’t  you  want  to  see  your  presents?”  asked  Rorie,  looking 
at  her  in  half-stupid  wonder  at  such  calm  superiority. 

“ They  will  keep  till  we  have  done  tea.  1 can  guess  pretty 
well  what  they  are  like.  How  many  chui’ch -services  have 
people  sent  me,  mamma  ? ” 

“ I think  the  last  made  fourteen,”  murmured  the  duchess, 
trifling  with  her  tea-sx30on. 

“And  how  many  ‘ Christian  years?’  ” 

“ Nine.” 

“ And  how  many  copies  of  Dore’s  ‘Idylls  of  the  King?’ ” 

‘‘  One  came  this  morning  from  Mrs.  Scobel,  1 think  it  was  the 
fifth.” 

“ How  many  lockets  inscribed  with  A.  E.  I.  or  ‘ Mizpah?’  ” 

“ My  darling,  I conld  not  possibly  count  those.  There  were 
three  more  by  post  this  morning.” 

“ You  see  there  is  rather  a sameness  in  these  things,”  said  Lady 
Mabel;  “and  you  can  understand  w'hy  I am  not  rabidly  curious 
about  the  contents  of  these  parcels.  I feel  sure  there  will  be 
another  ‘ Mizpah  ’ among  them.” 

She  had  received  Lord  Mallow’s  tribute,  an  Irish  jaunting-car, 
built  upon  the  newest  lines,  and  altogether  a most  perfect  vehicle 
for  driving  to  a meet  in,  so  light  and  perfectly  balanced  as  to 
travel  safely  through  the  ruttiest  glade  in  Mark  Ash. 

Rorie’s  gifts  had  all  been  given,  so  Lady  Mabel  could  afford  to 
make  light  of  the  unopened  parcels,  without  fear  of  wounding 
the  feelings  of  any  one  jiresent. 

They  were  opened  by  and  by,  when  the  duke  came  in  from 
his  farm,  sorely  disturbed  in  his  mind  at  the  serious  indisposition 
of  a six- hundred-guinea  cart-horse,  wliich  hapless  prize  animal 
had  been  fatted  to  such  an  inflammatory  condition  that  in  his 
case  the  commonest  ailment  might  prove  deadly.  Depi  essed  by 
this  calamity,  the  duke  required  to  be  propped  up  with  sherry 
and  Angustura  bitters,  wliich  tonic  mixture  was  presently 
brought  to  him  by  one  of  the  match  footmen,  who  looked  very 
much  as  if  he  were  suffering  from  the  same  plethoric  state  that 
was  likely  to  prove  fatal  to  the  cart-horse.  Happily,  the  foot- 
man’s death  would  be  but  a temporary  inconvenience — the  duke 
had  not  given  six  hundred  guineas  for  liirn. 

Lady  jMabel  ojiened  her  parcels,  in  the  hope  of  distracting  her 
father  from  the  contemplation  of  his  trouble. 

“ From  whom  can  this  be?”  she  asked,  wonderingly,  “ with  the 
Jersey  postmark?  Do  I know  any  one  in  Jersey?” 

Roderick  grew  suddenly  crimson,  and  became  deeply  absorbed 
in  the  business  of  peeling  a nectarine 

“ I surely  cannot  know  any  one  in  Jersey,”  said  Lady  Mabel,  in 


VIXEX 


297 


languid  wonderment.  is  an  altogether  impossible  place. 

Nobody  in  society  goes  there.  It  sounds  almost  as  disreputable 
as  Boulogne.” 

“You’d  better  open  the  packet,”  said  Rorie,  with  a quiver  in 
his  voice. 

“ Perhaps  it  is  from  some  of  your  friends,”  speculated  Mabel. 

She  broke  the  seal,  and  tore  the  cover  off  a small  morocco 
case. 

“What a lovely  pair  of  ear-rings!”  she  exclaimed. 

Each  ear-drop  was  a single  turquoise,  almost  as  large,  and 
quite  as  clear  in  color,  as  a hedge-sparrow’s  egg.  The  setting 
was  Roman,  exquisitely  artistic. 

“Now  I can  forgive  anyone  for  sending  me  such  jewelry  as 
that,”  said  Lady  Mabel.  “ It  is  not  the  sort  of  thing  one  sees  in 
every  jeweler’s  shop.” 

Rorie  looked  at  the  blue  stones  with  rueful  eyes.  He  knew 
them  well.  He  had  seen  them  contrasted  with  ruddy  chestnut 
hair,  and  the  whitest  skin  in  Christendom — or  at  any  rate  the 
whitest  he  had  ever  seen,  and  a man’s  world  can  be  but  the 
world  he  knows. 

“ There  is  a letter,”  said  Lady  Mabel.  “ Now  I shall  find  out 
all  about  my  mysterious  Jersey  friend.” 

fc)he  read  the  letter  aloud. 

“ Les  Tourelles,  Jersey,  July  25th. 

“ Dear  Lady  Mabel, — I cannot  bear  that  your  wedding-day 
should  go  by  without  bringing  you  some  small  token  of  regard 
from  your  husband’s  old  friend.  Will  you  wear  these  ear-rings 
nowand  then,  and  believe  that  they  come  from  one  who  has  noth- 
ing but  good  wishes  for  Rorie’s  wife  ? Yours  very  truly, 

“Violet  Tempest.” 

“Why,  they  are  actually  from  your  old  playfellow!”  cried 
Mabel,  with  a laugh  that  had  not  quite  a genuine  ring  in  its 
mirth.  “ The  young  lady  who  used  to  follow  the  staghounds, 
in  a green  habit  v ith  brass  buttons,  ever  so  many  years  ago,  and 
who  insisted  on  calling  you  Rorie.  She  does  it  still,  you  see. 
How  very  sweet  of  her  to  send  me  a wedding-present.  I ought 
to  ha  ;e  remembered.  I heard  something  about  her  being  sent 
off  to  Jersey  by  her  people,  because  she  had  grown  rather  incor- 
rigible at  home.” 

“She  was  not  incorrigible,  and  she  was  not  sent  off  to  Jer- 
sey,” said  Roderick,  grimly.  “ She  left  home  of  her  own  free- 
will, because  she  could  not  hit  it  with  her.  step-fat  her.” 

“ That  is  another  way  of  expressing  it j but  I think  we  both 
mean  pretty  much  thq  same  thing,’' retorted  Mabel.  “But  I 
don’t  want  to  know  why  she  went  to  Jersey.  She  has  behaved 
very  sweetly  in  sending  me  such  a pretty  letter;  and  when  she 
is  at  home  again  I shall  be  very  happy  to  see  her  at  my  garden- 
parties.” 

Lord  Mallow  had  no  share  in  this  conversation,  for  the  duke 
had  button-holed  him,  and  was  giving  him  a detailed  account  of 
the  cart-horse’s  symptoms. 

The  little  party  dispersed  soon  after  this,  and  did  not  fore- 


298 


VIXEN. 


gather  again  until  just  before  dinner,  when  the  people  who  had 
been  to  see  the  ruins  were  all  assembled,  full  of  their  day’s  en- 
joyment, and  of  sundry  conversational  encounters  which  they 
had  had  with  the  natives  of  the  district.  They  gave  themselves 
the  usual  airs  which  people  who  have  been  laboriously  amusing 
themselves  inflict  upon  those  wiser  individuals  who  prefer  the 
passive  pleasure  of  repose,  and  made  a merit  of  having  exposed 
themselves  to  the  meridian  sun,  in  the  pursuit  of  archaeological 
knowledge. 

Lady  Mabel  looked  pale  and  weary  all  that  evening.  Eod- 
erick  was  so  evidently  distrait  that  the  good-natured  duke, 
thought  that  he  must  be  worrying  himself  about  the  cart-horse, 
and  begged  him  to  make  his  mind  easy,  as  it  was  possible  the 
animal  might  even  yet  recover. 

Later  on  in  the  evening,  Lady  Mabel  and  Lord  Mallow  sat  in 
the  conservatory  and  talked  Irish  politics,  while  Rorie  and  the 
younger  members  of  the  house  party  played  Nap.  The  conserv- 
atory was  deliciously  cool  on  this  summer  evening,  dimly  lighted 
by  lamps  that  were  half  hidden  among  the  palms  and  orange- 
trees.  Lady  Mabel  and  her  companion  could  see  the  stars  shin- 
ing through  the  open  doorway,  and  the  mystical  darkness  of 
remote  woods.  Their  voices  were  hushed;  there  were  pauses  of 
silence  in  their  talk.  Never  had  the  stirring  question  of  Home 
Rule  been  more  interesting. 

Lady  Mabel  did  not  go  back  to  the  drawing-room  that  evening. 
There  was  a door  leading  from  the  conservatory  to  the  hall;  and, 
while  Rorie  and  the  young  people  were  still  somewhat  noisily 
engaged  in  the  game  of  Napoleon,  Lady  Mabel  went  out  to  the 
hall  with  Lord  Mallow  in  attendance  upon  her.  When  he  had 
taken  her  candle  from  the  table  and  lighted  it,  he  paused  for  a 
moment  or  so  before  he  handed  it  to  her,  looking  at  her  very 
earnestly  all  the  while,  as  she  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase, 
with  saddened  face  and  downcast  eyes,  gravely  contemplative 
of  the  stair-carpet. 

“ Is  it — positively — too  late?”  he  asked. 

“ You  must  feel  and  know  that  it  is  so,”  she  answered. 

“ But  it  might  have  been  ?” 

“Yes,”  she  murmured  with  a faint  sigh,  “it  might  have 
been.” 

He  gave  her  the  candlestick,  and  she  went  slowly  up-stairs, 
without  a word  of  good-night.  He  stood  in  the  hall,  watching 
the  slim  figure  as  it  ascended,  aerial  and  elegant  in  its  palely- 
tinted  drapery. 

“It  might  have  been,”  he  repeated  to  himself;  and  then  he 
lighted  his  candle  and  ^vent  slowdy  up  the  staircase.  He  was  in 
no  humor  for  billiards,  cigars,  or  noisy  masculine  talk  to-night. 
Still  less  was  he  inclined  to  be  at  ease  and  to  make  merry  with 
Roderick  Vawdrey. 


VIXEN. 


299 


CHAPTEE  XL. 

WEDDING-BET.LS. 

Vixen  had  been  more  than  a year  in  the  island  of  Jersey,  She 
had  lived  her  lonely  and  monotonous  existence  and  made  no 
moan.  It  was  a dreary  exile;  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  there 
was  little  else  for  her  to  do  in  life  but  dawdle  through  the  long, 
slow  days,  and  bear  the  burden  of  living;  at  least  until  she  came 
of  age,  and  was  independent,  and  could  go  where  she  pleased. 
Then  there  would  be  the  wide  world  for  her  to  wander  over,  in- 
stead of  this  sea  girdled  garden  of  Jersey.  She  had  reasons  of 
her  own  for  so  quietly  submitting  to  this  joyless  life.  Mrs. 
Carmichael  kept  her  informed  of  all  that  was  doing  in  Hamp- 
shire, and  even  at  the  Queen  Anne  house  at  Kensington.  Si)e 
knew  that  Roderick  Vawdrey’s  wedding-day  was  fixed  for  the 
1st  of  August.  Was  it  not  better  that  she  should  be  far  away, 
hi  Men  from  her  small  \vorld,  while  those  marriage- bells  v^ere 
ringing  across  the  darkening  beech- woods? 

Her  sacrilice  had  not  been  in  vai  Her  lover  had  speedily  for- 
gotten that  brief  madness  of  last  midsummer,  and  had  returned 
to  his  allegiance.  There  had  been  no  cloud  upon  the  loves  of 
the  plighted  cousins— no  passing  gust  of  dissension.  If  there 
had  been,  Mrs.  Carmichael  would  have  known  all  about  it.  Her 
letters  told  only  of  harmonious  feeling  and  perpetual  sunshine. 

“Lady  Mabel  is  looking  prettier  than  ever,”  she  wrote,  in  the 
last  week  of  July,  “that  ethereal  loveliness  which  I so  much 
admire.  Her  waist  cannot  be  more  than  eighteen  inches.  I 
cannot  find  out  who  makes  her  dresses,  but  they  are  exquisitely 
becoming  to  her;  though,  for  my  own  part,  I do  not  think  the 
style  equal  to  Theodore’s.  But  then  I always  supplemented 
Theodore's  ideas  with  my  own  suggestions. 

“I  hear  that  the  trousseau  is  something  wonderful.  The 
lingei'ie  IB  in  quite  a new  style;  a special  make  of  linen  has  been 
introduced  at  Bruges  on  purpose  for  the  occasion,  and  I have 
heard  tl  -at  the  loom  is  to  be  broken  and  no  more  made.  But  this 
is  perhaps  exaggeration.  The  lace  has  all  been  made  in  Buck- 
inghamshire, from  patterns  a hundred  years  old — very  quaint 
and  pretty.  There  is  an  elegant  simplicity  about  everything 
Mrs.  Scobel  tells  me,  which  is  very  charming.  The  costumes 
for  the  Norwegian  tour  are  heather-colored  water-proof  cloth, 
with  stitched  borders,  plain  to  the  last  degree,  but  with  a chic 
that  redeems  their  plainness. 

“Conrad  and  I received  an  eaily  invitation  to  the  wedding. 
He  will  go;  but  I have  refused  on  the  ground  of  ill-health.  And, 
indeed,  my  dear  Violet,  this  is  no  idle  excuse.  My  health  has 
been  declining  ever  since  you  left  us.  I was  always  a fragile 
creature,  as  you  know,  even  in  your  dear  papa’s  time;  but  of 
late  the  least  exertion  has  made  me  tremble  like  a leaf.  I bear 
up,  for  Conrad’s  sake.  He  is  so  anxious  and  unhappy  when  he 
sees  me  suffer,  and  I am  glad  to  spare  him  anxiety. 

“Your  old  friend,  Mr.  Vawdrey,  looks  well  and  happy,  but 


800 


VIXEN. 


I do  not  see  much  of  him.  Believe  me,  dear,  you  acted  well  and 
wisely  in  leaving  home  when  you  did.  It  would  have  been  a 
dreadful  thing  if  Lady  Mabel's  engagement  had  been  broken  off 
on  account  of  an  idle  flirtation  between  you  and  Eorie.  It  would 
have  left  a stain  upon  your  name  for  life.  Girls  do  not  think  of 
these  tilings.  I’m  afraid  I flirted  a little  myself  when  I was  first 
out,  and  admiration  was  new  to  me;  but  I married  so  young 
that  I escaped  some  of  the  dangers  you  have  l ad  to  pass 
through. 

“ Roderick  is  making  considerable  improvements  and  altera- 
tions at  Briarwood.  He  is  trying  to  make  the  house  pretty — I 
fear  an  impossible  task.  There  is  a commonplace  tone  about 
the  building  that  defies  improvement.  The  orchid-houses  at 
Ashbourne  are  to  be  taken  doTvn  and  removed  to  Briarwood. 
The  collection  has  been  increasing  ever  since  Lady  Jane  Yaw- 
drey’s  death,  and  is  now  one  of  the  finest  in  England.  But  to 
my  mind  the  taste  is  a most  foolish  one.  Dear  Conrad  thinks 
me  extravagant  for  giving  sixty  guineas  for  a dress — what 
might  he  not  think  if  I gave  as  much  for  a single  plant  ? Lord 
Mallow  is  staying  at  Ashbourne  for  the  wedding.  His  success  in 
the  House  of  Commons  has  made  him  quite  a lion.  He  called  and 
took  tea  with  me  the  other  day.  He  is  very  nice.  Ah,  my  dear- 
est Violet,  wi:at  a pity  you  could  not  like  him.  It  would  have 
been  such  a splendid  match  for  you,  and  would  have  made  Con- 
rad and  me  so  proud  and  happy 

Vixen  folded  the  letter  with  a sigh.  She  was  sitting  in  her 
favorite  spot  in  the  neglected  garden,  the  figs  ripening  above 
her  among  their  broad,  ragged  leaves,  and  the  green  slopes  and 
valleys  lying  beneath  her — orchards  and  meadows  and  pink 
homesteads,  under  a sultry  summer  haze. 

The  daughter  was  not  particularly  alarmed  by  her  mother's 
complaint  of  declining  health.  It  was  that  old  cry  of  “ wolf,” 
which  Violet  had  heard  ever  since  she  could  remember. 

‘‘Poor  mamma!”  she  said  to  herself,  with  a half-pitying  ten- 
derness, “ it  has  always  been  her  particular  vanity  to  fancy  her- 
self an  invalid;  and  yet  no  doctor  has  ever  been  able  to  find  out 
anything  amiss.  She  ought  to  be  very  happy  now,  poor  dear; 
she  has  the  husband  of  her  choice,  and  no  rebellious  daughter  to 
make  the  atmosphere  stormy.  I must  write  to  Mrs.  Scobel,  and 
ask  if  mamma  is  really  not  quite  so  well  as  when  I left  home.” 

And  then  Vixen’s  thoughts  wandered  away  to  Rorie,  and  the 
alterations  that  were  being  made  at  Briarwood.  He  was  pre- 
paring a bright  home  for  his  young  wife,  and  they  would  be 
very  happy  together,  and  it  would  be  as  if  Violet  had  never 
crossed  his  path. 

“But  he  was  fond  of  me,  last  midsummer  twelvemonth.” 
thought  Vixen,  half  seated,  half  reclining  against  a grassy 
bank,  with  her  hands  clasped  above  her  head,  and  her  open 
^ok  flung  aside  upon  the  long  grass,  where  the  daisies  and 
dandelions  grew  in  such  wild  abundance.  “Yes,  he  loved  me 
dearly  then,  and  would  have  sacrificed  interest,  honor,  all  the 
world  for  my  sake.  Can  L.o  forget  those  days,  when  they  are 


VIXEK 


301 


thus  ever  present  to  my  mind  ? Hf*  seemed  more  in  love  than  I* 
yet,  a little  year,  and  he  is  going  to  be  married.  Have  men  no 
memories?  I do  not  believe  that  he  loves  Lady  Mabel  any  i>et- 
ter  than  he  did  a year  ago,  when  he  asked  me  to  be  his  wife. 
But  he  has  learned  wisdom;  and  he  is  going  to  keep  his  word, 
and  to  be  owner  of  Briar  wood  and  Ashbourne,  and  a great  man 
in  the  county.  I suppose  it  is  a glorious  destiny.” 

In  these  last  days  of  July  a strange  restlessness  had  taken 
possession  of  Violet  Tempest.  She  could  not  read  or  occupy 
herself  in  any  way.  Those  long  rambles  about  the  island,  to 
wild  precipices  looking  down  on  peaceful  bays,  to  furzy  hills 
where  a few  scattered  sheep  were  her  sole  companions,  to 
heath.ery  steeps  that  were  craggy  and  precipitous  and  dangerous 
to  climb,  and  so  had  a certain  fascination  for  the  lonely  wan- 
derer— these  rambles,  which  liad  been  her  chief  resource  and 
solace  until  now,  had  suddenly  lost  their  charm.  She  dawdled 
in  the  garden,  ur  roamed  restlessly  from  the  garden  to  the  or- 
chard, from  the  orchard  to  the  sloping  meadow,  where  Miss 
Skipwith's  solitary  cow,  last  representative  of  a once  well- 
stocked  farm,  browsed  in  a dignified  seclusion.  The  days  were 
slow,  and  oh,  how  lengthy!  and  yet  there  was  a fever  in  Vixen’s 
blood  which  made  it  seem  to  her  as  if  time  were  hurrying  on  at 
a breathless,  breakneck  pace. 

“The  day  after  to-morrow  he  will  be  married,”  she  said  to 
herself,  on  the  morning  of  the  30th.  “By  this  time,  on  the  day 
after  to-morrow,  the  bride  will  be  putting  on  her  wreath  of 
orange  blossoms,  and  the  church  will  be  decorated  with  flowers, 
and  there  will  be  a flutter  of  expectation  in  all  the  little  villages, 
from  one  end  of  the  Forest  to  the  other.  A duke’s  daughter  is 
not  married  every  day  in  the  year.  Ah  me!  there  will  not  be  an 
earthquake,  or  anything  to  prevent  the  wedding,  I dare  say. 
No,  I feel  sure  that  all  things  are  going  smoothly.  If  there  had 
been  a hitch  of  any  kind,  mamma  would  have  written  to  tell 
me  about  it.” 

Miss  Skipwith  was  not  a bad  person  to  live  with  in  a time  of 
secret  trouble  such  as  this.  She  was  so  completely  wrapped  up 
in  her  grand  scheme  of  reconciliation  for  all  the  creeds,  that  she 
was  utterly  blind  to  any  individual  tragedy  that  might  be  en- 
acted under  her  nose.  Those  worn  cheeks  and  haggard  eyes  of 
Vixen’s  attracted  no  attention  from  her  as  they  sat  opposite  to 
each  other  at  the  sparsely-furnished  breakfast-table,  in  t’ne 
searching  summer  light. 

She  had  allowed  Violet  perfect  liberty,  and  had  been  too 
apathetic  to  be  unkind.  Having  tried  her  hardest  to  interest  the 
girl  in  Swedenborg,  or  Luther,  or  Calvin,  or  Mohammed,  or 
Brahma,  or  Ccnfucius,  and  having  failed  ignominiously  in  each 
attempt,  she  had  dismissed  all  idea  of  companionship  with 
Violet  from  her  mind,  and  had  given  her  over  to  her  own  de- 
vices. 

“ Poor  child,”  she  said  to  herself,  “she  is  not  unamiable,  but 
she  is  utterly  mindless.  What  advantages  she  might  have  de- 
rived from  intercourse  with  me,  if  she  had  possessed  a receptive 
nature!  But  my  highest  gifts  are  thrown  away  upon  her  he 


302 


VIXEN, 


will  go  through  life  in  lamentable  ign  or  an  re  of  all  that  is  of 
deepest  import  in  man’s  past  and  future.  She  has  no  more  in- 
tellect than  Baba.” 

Baba  was  the  Persian  cat,  the  silent  companion  of  Miss  Skip- 
with’s  studious  hours. 

So  Violet  roamed  in  and  out  of  the  house,  in  tl.is  languid 
weather,  and  took  up  a book  only  to  throw  it  down  again,  and 
went  out  to  the  court -yard  to  pat  Argus,  and  strolled  into  the 
orchard  and  leaned  listlessly  against  an  ancient  apple-tree,  with 
her  loose  hair  glistening  in  the  sunshine — just  as  if  she  were  pos- 
ing herself  for  a pre-Raphaelile  picture — and  no  one  took  any 
heed  of  her  goings  and  comings. 

She  was  supremely  lonely.  Even  looking  forward  to  the  fut- 
ure— when  she  would  be  of  age  and  well  off,  and  free  to  do  what 
she  liked  with  her  life — she  could  see  no  star  of  hope.  Nobody 
wanted  her.  She  stood  quite  alone  amidst  a strange,  unfriendly 
world. 

“ Except  poor  old  M’Croke,  I don’t  think  there  is  a creature 
who  cares  for  me;  and  even  her  love  is  tepid,”  she  said  to  her- 
self. 

She  had  kept  up  a regular  correspondence  with  her  old  gover- 
ness, since  she  had  been  in  Jersey,  and  had  developed  to  Miss 
M’Croke  the  scheme  of  her  future  travels.  They  were  to  see 
everything  strange  and  rare  and  beautiful  that  was  to  be  seen 
in  the  world. 

‘‘I  wonder  if  you  would  much  mind  going  to  Africa?”  she 
wrote,  in  one  of  her  frank,  girlish  letters.  “There  must  be 
something  new  in  Africa.  One  would  get  away  from  the  beaten 
ways  of  Cockney  tourists,  and  one  would  escape  the  dreary  mo- 
notony of  a table  dhote.  There  is  Egynt  for  us  to  do;  and  you, 
who  are  a walking  encyclopaedia,  will  be  able  to  tell  me  all  about 
the  Pyramids,  and  Pompey’s  Pillar,  and  the  Nile.  If  we  got 
tired  of  Africa  we  might  go  to  India.  We  shall  be  thoroughly 
independent.  I know  you  are  a good  sailor;  you  are  not  like 
poor  mamma,  who  used  to  suffer  tortures  in  c’  ossing  the  Channel.” 

There  was  a relief  in  writing  such  letters  as  these,  foolish 
though  they  might  be.  That  idea  of  distant  wanderings  with 
Miss  M’Croke  was  the  one  faint  ray  of  hope  offered  by  the  future 
— not  a star,  assuredly,  but  at  least  a farthing  candle.  The  gov- 
erness answered  in  her  friendly  matter-of-fact  way.  She  would 
like  much  to  travel  with  her  dearest  Violet.  The  life  would  be 
like  heaven  after  her  present  drudgery  in  finishing  the  Misses 
Pontifex,  who  were  stupid  and  supercilious.  But  Miss  M’Croke 
was  doubtful  about  Africa.  Sucli  a journey  would  be  a fearful 
undertaking  for  two  unprotected  females.  To  have  a peep  at 
Algiers  and  Tunis,  and  even  to  see  Cairo  and  Alexandria,  might 
be  practicable;  but  anything  beyond  that  Miss  M’Croke  tl. ought 
wild  and  adventurous.  Had  her  dear  Violet  considered  the  cli- 
mate, and  the  possibility  of  being  taken  prisoners  by  black 
people,  or  even  devoured  by  lions  ? Miss  M’Croke  begged  her 
dear  pupil  to  read  Livingstone’s  travels,  and  the  latest  reports  of 
the  Royal  Geographical  Society,  before  she  gave  any  further 
thought  to  Africa. 


VIXEN, 


803 


The  slowest  hours,  days  the  most  wearisome,  long  nights  that 
know  not  sleep,  must  end  at  last.  The  first  of  August  dawned 
— a long  streaJc  of  red  light  in  the  clear  gray  east.  Vixen  saw 
the  first  glimmer  as  she  lay  wide  awake  in  her  big  old  bed,  star- 
ing through  the  curtain  less  windows  to  the  far  sea-line,  above 
which  the  morning  sky  grew  red. 

“ Hail,  Eorie’s  wedding-day!”  she  cried,  with  a little  hysterical 
laugh;  and  then  she  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow  and  sobbed 
aio ad — sobbed  as  she  had  not  done  till  now,  through  all  her 
w eary  exile. 

There  had  been  no  earthquake;  this  planet  wo  live  on  had  not 
rolled  backward  in  space;  all  things  in  life  pursued  their  accus- 
tomed course,  and  time  had  ripened  into  Roderick  Vawdrey’s 
w^edding-day. 

“ I did  think  would  happen,”  said  Vixen,  piteouslv. 

It  was  foolish,  weak,  mad  to  think  so.  But  I could  not  believe 
he  would  marry  any  one  but  me.  I did  my  duty,  and  I tried  to 
be  brave  and  steadfast.  But  I thought  something  would  happen.” 

A weak  lament  from  the  w^eak  soul  of  an  undisciplined  girl. 
The  red  light  grew  and  glow^ed  redder  in  the  east,  and  then  the 
yellow  sun  shone  through  gray  drifting  clouds,  and  the  new  day 
was  born.  Slumber  and  Violet  had  parted  company  for  the  last 
week.  Her  mind  had  been  too  full  of  images;  the  curtain  of 
sleep  would  not  hide  them.  Frame  and  mind  were  both  alike 
worn-out,  as  she  lay  in  the  broadening  light,  lonely,  forsaken, 
unpitied,  bearing  her  great  sorrow,  just  as  she  must  have  borne 
the  toothache,  or  any  other  corporal  pain. 

She  rose  at  seven,  feeling  unspeakably  tired,  dressed  herself 
slowly  and  dawdlingly,  thinking  of  Lady  Mabel.  What  an 
event  her  rising  and  dressing  would  be  this  morning — the  flurried 
maids,  the  indulgent  mother;  th.e  pure  white  garments  glistening 
in  the  tempered  sunlight;  the  luxurious  room,  with  its  subdued 
coloring,  its  perfume  of  freshly-cut  flowers;  the  dainty  breakfast 
tray,  on  a table  by  an  open  window^;  the  shower  of  congratula- 
tory letters,  and  the  last  delivery  of  wedding-gifts.  Vixen  could 
imagine  the  scene,  with  its  every  detail. 

And  Roderick,  what  of  him  ? She  could  not  so  easily  picture 
the  companion  of  her  childhood  on  this  fateful  morning  of  his 
life.  She  could  not  imagine  him  happy;  she  dared  not  fancy 
him  miserable.  It  was  safer  to  make  a great  effort  and  shut 
that  familiar  figure  out  of  her  mind  altogether. 

Oh,  what  a dismal  ceremony  the  eight  o’clock  breakfast,  tetC' 
a-tete  with  Miss  Skip  with  seemed  on  this  particular  morning! 
Even  that  preoccupied  lady  was  constrained  to  notice  Violet’s 
exceeding  pallor. 

‘‘My  dear,  you  are  ill!”  she  exclaimed.  “Your  face  is  as 
white  as  a sheet  of  paper,  and  your  eyes  have  dark  rings  around 
them.” 

“I  am  not  ill,  but  I have  been  sleeping  badly  of  late.” 

“ My  dear  child,  you  need  occupation;  you  want  an  aim.  The 
purposeless  life  you  are  leading  must  result  badly.  Why  can 
you  not  devise  some  pursuit  to  fill  your  idle  hours?  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  interfere  with  your  liberty;  but  1 confess  that  it 


304 


VIXEN. 


grieves  me  to  see  youth,  and  no  doubt  some  measure  of  ability, 
so  wasted.  Why  do  you  not  strive  to  continue  your  education? 
Self-culture  is  the  highest  form  of  improvement.  My  books  are 
at  your  disposal.” 

‘‘Dear  Miss  Skipwith,  your  books  are  all  theological,”  said 
Vixen,  \\'earily,  “ and  T don’t  care  for  theology.  As  for  my 
education,  I am  not  utterly  neglecting  it.  I read  Schiller  till  my 
eyes  ache.” 

“ One  shallow  German  poet  is  not  the  beginning  and  end  of 
education,’’ replied  Miss  Skipwith.  “I  should  like  you  to  take 
larger  views  of  woman’s  work  in  the  v/orld.” 

“ My  work  in  the  world  is  to  live  quietly  and  not  to  trouble 
any  one,”  said  Vixen,  with  a sigh. 

She  was  glad  to  leave  Miss  Skipwith  to  her  books,  and  to  wan- 
der  out  into  the  sunny  garden,  where  the  figs  were  ripening,  or 
dropping  half -ripened  among  the  neglected  grass,  and  the  clus- 
tering bloom  of  the  hydrangeas  was  as  blue  as  the  summer  sky. 
There  had  been  an  unbroken  interval  of  sultry  weather — no 
rain,  no  wind,  no  clouds — only  endless  sunshine. 

“ If  it  would  hail,  or  blow,  or  thunder,”  sighed  Vixen,  with 
her  hands  clasped  above  l:er  head,  “ the  change  might  be  some 
small  relief  to  my  feelings;  but  this  everlasting  brightness  is  too 
dreadful.  What  a lying  world  it  is,  and  how  Nature  smiles  at 
us  w'hen  our  hearts  are  aching.  Well,  I suppose  I ought  to  wish 
the  sunshine  to  last  till  after  Eorie’s  wedding;  but  I don’t,  I don’t, 
I don’t  I If  the  heavens  were  to  darken,  and  forked  lightnings 
to  cleave  the  black  vault,  I should  dance  for  joy.  I should  hail 
the  storm,  and  cry,  ‘ This  is  sympathy!’  ” 

And  then  she  flung  herself  face  downward  on  the  grass  and 
sobbed,  as  she  had  sobbed  on  her  pillow  that  morning. 

“ It  rends  my  heart  to  know  wp  are  parted  forever,”  she  said. 
“Oh,  why  did  I not  say  Yes  that  night  in  the  fir  plantation ? 
The  chance  of  life-long  bliss  was  in  my  hand,  and  I let  it  go.  It 
would  have  been  less  wicked  to  give  way  then,  and  accept  my 
happy  fate,  than  to  suffer  these  evil  feelings  that  are  gnawing  at 
my  heart  to-day — vain  rage,  cruel  hatred  of  the  innocent!” 

The  wedding-bells  must  be  ringing  by  this  time.  She  fancied 
she  could  hear  them.  Yes,  the  summer-air  seemed  alive  with 
bells.  North,  south  east,  west,  all  round  the  island,  they  were 
ringing  madly,  with  tuneful  marriage  peal.  They  beat  upon  her 
brain.  They  would  drive  her  mad.  Sue  tried  to  stop  her  ears, 
but  then  those  wedding-chimes  seemed  ringing  inside  her  head, 
she  could  not  shut  them  out.  She  remembered  how  the  jo\^- 
bells  had  haunted  her  ears  on  Rorie’s  twenty-first  birthday — ^that 
day  which  had  ended  so  bitterly,  in  the  announcement  of  the 
engagement  between  the  cousins.  Yes,  that  had  been  her  first 
re«al  trouble,  How  well  she  remembered  her  dispair  and  desola- 
tion that  night,  the  rage  that  possessed  her  young  soul! 

“ And  I was  little  more  than  a child  then,”  she  said  to  herself. 
“Surely  I must  have  been  born  wicked.  My  dear  father  was  hving 
then;  and  even  the  thought  of  his  love  did  not  comfort  me.  I 
felt  myself  abandoned  and  alone  in  the  world.  How  idiotically 
fond  I must  have  been  of  Rorie!  Ever  so  many  years  have  come 


VIXEN. 


805 


and  gone,  and  I have  not  cured  myself  of  this  folly.  What  is 
there  in  him  that  I should  care  for  him?” 

She  got  up  from  the  grass,  plucked  herself  out  of  that  parox- 
ysm of  mental  pain  which  came  too  near  lunacy,  and  began  to 
walk  slowly  round  the  garden-paths,  reasoning  with  herself, 
calling  womanly  pride  to  the  rescue. 

“ I hate  myself  for  this  weakness,”  she  protested  dumbly.  “ I 
did  not  think  I was  capable  of  it.  When  I was  a child,  and  was 
taken  to  the  dentist,  did  I ever  whine  and  howl  like  vulgar- 
minded  children?  No;  I braced  mjself  for  the  ordeal,  and  bore 
the  pain  as  my  father’s  child  ought.” 

' She  walked  quickly  to  the  house,  burst  into  the  parlor,  where 
Miss  Skipwith  was  sitting  at  her  desk,  the  table  covered  with 
open  volumes,  over  which  flowers  of  literature  the  student  roved, 
bee-like,  collecting  honey  for  her  intellectual  hive. 

“Please,  Miss  Skipwith,  will  you  give  me  some  books  about 
Buddha?”  said  Vixen,  with  an  alarming  suddenness.  “I  am 
quite  of  your  opinion:  I ought  to  study.  I think  I shall  go  in 
for  theology.” 

“My  dearest  child  I”  cried  the  ancient  damsel,  enraptured, 
“Thank  Heaven!  the  seed  I have  sown  has  germinated  at  last. 
If  you  are  once  inspired  with  the  desire  to  enter  that  vast  field 
of  knowledge,  the  rest  will  follow.  The  flowers  you  will  find 
by  the  way-si  le  will  lure  you  onward,  even  when  the  path  is 
stony  and  difficult.” 

“ i suppose  I had  better  begin  with  Buddha,”  said  Vixen,  with 
a hard  and  resolute  manner  that  scarcely  seemed  like  the  burn- 
ing desire  for  knowledge  newly  kindled  in  the  breast  of  a youth- 
ful student.  “ That  is  beginning  at  the  beginning,  is  it  not?” 

“No,  my  dear.  In  comparison  with  the  priesthood  of  Egypt, 
Buddha  is  contemptibly  modem.  If  we  want  the  beginning  of 
things,  we  must  revert  to  Egypt,  that  cradle  of  learning  and  civ- 
ilization.” 

“Then  let  me  begin  with  Egypt!”  cried  Vixen,  impatiently. 
“ I don’t  care  a bit  how  I begin.  I want  occupation  of  mind.” 

“ Did  I not  say  so?”  exclaimed  Miss  Skipwith,  full  of  ardent 
welcome  for  the  neophyte  wliose  steps  had  been  so  tardy  in  ap- 
proaching the  shrine.  “ That  pallor,  those  haggard  eyes,  are 
indications  of  a troubled  mind ; and  no  mind  can  be  free  from 
trouble  when  it  lacks  an  object.  We  create  our  own  sorrows.” 

“Yes,  we  are  wretched  creatures!”  cried  Vixen,  passionately, 
“ the  poorest  examples  of  machinery  in  all  this  varied  universe. 
Look  at  that  cow  in  your  orchard,  her  dull  placid  life,  inoffen^ 
sive,  useful,  asking  nothing  but  a fertile  meadow  and  a sunny 
day  to  fill  her  cup  of  happiness.  Why  did  the  gTeat  Creator 
make  the  lower  animals  exempt  from  sorrow,  and  give  us  such 
an  infinite  capacity  for  grief  and  pain  ? It  seems  hardly  fair.” 

“ My  dear,  our  Creator  gave  us  minds,  and  the  power  of  work- 
ing out  our  own  salvation,”  replied  Miss  Skipwith.  “Here  are 
half  a dozen  volumes.  In  these  you  will  find  the  history  of 
Egyptian  theology,  from  the  golden  age  of  the  god  Ra  to  the 
dark  and  troubled  period  of  Persian  invasion.  Some  of  these 
works  are  purely  philosophical.  I should  recommend  you  to 


303 


VIXEN. 


read  the  historical  volumes  first.  Make  copious  notes  of  wliat 
you  read,  and  do  not  hesitate  to  refer  to  me  when  yeu  are  nuz- 
zled.’’ 

“lam  afraid  that  will  be  very  often,”  said  Vixen,  piling  up 
the  books  in  her  arms  with  a somewhat  hopeless  air.  “ I am  not 
at  all  clever;  but  I want  to  employ  my  mind.” 

She  carried  the  books  up  to  her  bedroom,  and  arranged  them 
on  a stout  old  oak  table,  which  Mrs.  Doddery  had  found  for  her 
accommodation.  She  opened  her  desk,  and  put  a quire  of  paper 
ready  for  any  notes  she  might  be  tempted  to  make,  and  then  she 
began,  steadily  and  laboriously,  with  a dry-as-dust  history  of 
ancient  Egypt. 

Oh,  how  her  poor  head  ached  as  the  summer  noontide  wore 
on,  and  the  bees  hummed  in  the  garden  below,  and  the  distant 
wav(?s  danced  gayly  in  the  sunlight;  and  the  knowledge  that  the 
bells  were  really  ringing  at  Ashbourne  could  not  be  driven  from 
her  mind.  How  the  shepherd  kings,  ard  the  Pharaohs,  and  the 
comparatively  modern  days  of  Joseph  and  his  brethren,  and  the 
ridiculously  recent  era  of  Moses  passed,  like  diju,  shifting  shad* 
ows,  before  her  mental  vision.  She  retraced  her  steps  in  that 
dreary  book  again  and  again,  patiently  forcing  her  mind  to  the 
uncongenial  task. 

“ I will  not  be  such  a slave  as  to  think  of  him  all  this  long 
summer  day,”  she  said  to  herself.  think  of  the  good 

Ea,  and  lotus  flowers,  and  the  Eed  Nile,  and  the  Green  Nile,  and 
all  this  wonderful  land  where  I am  going  to  take  dear  old 
M’Croke  by  and  by.” 

She  read  on  till  dinner-time,  only  pausing  to  scribble  rapid 
notes  of  the  dates  and  names  and  facts  which  would  not  stand 
steadily  in  her  whirling  brain;  and  then  she  went  down  to  the 
parlor,  no  longer  pale,  but  with  two  hectic  spots  on  her  cheeks, 
and  her  eyes  unnaturally  bright. 

“Ah!”  ejaculated  Mis^  Skip  with,  delightedly.  “You  look 
better  already.  There  is  nothing  like  severe  study  for  bracing 
the  nerves.” 

Violet  talked  about  Egypt  all  dinner-time,  but  she  ate  hardly 
anything,  and  that  hectic  flush  upon  her  cheeks  grew  more  vivid 
as  she  talked. 

“ To  think  that  after  the  seed  lying  dormant  all  this  time,  it 
should  l5ave  germinated  at  last  with  such  sudden  vigor,”  mused 
Miss  Skipwith. 

“ The  poor  girl  is  talking  a good  deal  of  nonsense;  but  that  is 
only  the  exuberance  of  a newly  awakened  intellect.” 

Vixen  went  back  to  the  Egyptians  directly  after  dinner.  She 
toiled  along  the  arid  road  with  an  indomitable  patience.  Her 
ideas  of  Egypt  had  hit  hei to  been  of  the  vaguest.  Vast  plains 
of  barren  sand,  a pyramid  or  two,  Memnon’s  head  breathing 
wild  music  in  the  morning  sunshine,  crocodiles,  copper-colored 
natives,  and  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  These  things  were  about  as 
much  as  Miss  M’Croke's  painstaking  tuition  had  implanted  in  her 
pupil’s  mind.  And  here,  without  a “shadow  of  vocation,  this 
poor  ignorant  girl  was  poring  over  the  dryest  details  that  ever 
interested  the  scholar.  The  mysteries  of  the  triple  language, 


VIXEK 


807 


the  Rosetta  Stone,  Champollion — tout  le  long  de  la  riviere.  Was 
it  any  wonder  that  her  head  ached  almost  to  agony,  and  that 
the  ringing  of  imaginary  wedding-bells  sounded  distractingly  in 
her  ears. 

She  worked  on  till  tea-time,  and  was  too  engrossed  to  hear  the 
bell,  which  clanged  lustily  for  every  meal  in  t!ie  orderly  house- 
hold, a bell  whose  clamor  was  somewhat  too  much  for  the  re- 
past it  heralded. 

This  evening  Vixen  did  not  hear  the  bell,  inviting  her  to  weak 
tea  and  bread-and-butter.  The  ringing  of  those  other  bells  ob- 
scured the  sound.  She  was  sitting  with  her  book  before  her, 
but  her  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  when  Miss  Skipwith,  newly  in- 
terested in  her  charge,  came  lo  inquire  the  cause  of  her  delay. 
The  girl  looked  at  her  languidly,  and  seemed  slow  to  understand 
what  she  said. 

“I  don’t  care  for  any  tea,”  she  replied  at  last.  “I  would 
rather  go  on  with  the  history.  It  is  tremendously  interesting, 
especially  the  hieroglyphics.  I have  been  trying  to  make  them 
out.  It  is  so  nice  to  know  that  a figure  like  a chopper  means  a 
god,  and  that  a goose  with  a black  ball  above  his  back  means 
Pharaoh,  son  of  the  sun.  And  then  the  table  of  dynasties:  can 
anything  be  more  interesting  than  those?  It  makes  one’s  head 
go  round  just  a little  at  first,  when  one  has  to  grope  backward 
through  so  many  centuries,  but  that’s  nothing.” 

“ My  dear,  you  are  working  too  hard.  It  is  foolish  to  begin 
with  such  impetuosity.  A fire  that  burns  so  fiercely  will  soon 
exhaust  itself.  Festina  lente.  We  must  hasten  slowly,  if  we 
want  to  make  solid  progress.  Why,  my  poor  child,  your  fore- 
head is  burning.  You  will  read  yourself  into  a fever.” 

“ I think  I am  in  a fever  already,”  said  Vixen. 

Miss  Skipwith  was  unusually  kind.  She  insisted  upon  helping 
her  charge  to  undress,  and  would  not  leave  her  till  she  was 
lying  quietly  in  bed.  She  was  going  to  draw  down  the  blinds, 
but  against  this  Vixen  protested  vehemently. 

‘‘  Pray  leave  me  the  sky,”  she  cried;  “ it  is  something  to  look 
at  through  the  long,  blank  night.  The  stars  come  and  go,  and 
the  clouds  are  always  changing.  I believe  I should  go  mad  if  it 
were  not  for  the  sky.” 

Poor  Miss  Skipwith  felt  seriously  uneasy.  The  first  draught 
from  the  fountain  of  knowledge  had  evidently  exercised  an 
intoxicating  effect  upon  Violet  Tempest.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
been  taking  opium  or  hasheesh.  The  girl’s  brain  was  affected. 

‘‘You  have  studied  too  long,”  she  said.  “This  must  not  occur 
again.  I feel  myself  responsible  to  your  parents  for  your 
health.” 

“ To  my  parents,”  echoed  Vixen,  with  a sudden  sigh;  “ I have\ 
only  one,  and  she  is  happier  in  my  absence  than  when  I was 
with  her.  You  need  not  be  uneasy  about  me  if  I fall  ill.  No 
one  will  care.  If  I were  to  die,  no  one  would  be  sorry.  I have 
no  place  in  the  world.  No  one  would  miss  me.” 

“My  dear,  it  is  absolutely  wicked  to  talk  in  this  strain;  just 
as  you  are  developing  new  powers,  an  intellect  which  may  make 
you  a pillar  and  a landmark  in  your  age.” 


308 


VIXEN, 


“ I don’t  want  to  be  a pillar  or  a landmark,”  said  Vixen,  im- 
patiently. “I  don’t  want  to  have  my  name  associated  with 
‘ movements,’  or  to  write  letters  to  The  Times,  I should  like  to 
have  been  hapiDy  my  own  way.” 

She  turned  her  back  upon  Miss  Skipwith,  and  lay  so  still  that 
the  excellent  lady  supposed  she  was  dropping  off  to  sleep. 

“ A good  night’s  rest  will  restore  her,  and  she  will  awake  with 
renewed  appetite  for  knowledge,”  she  murmured,  benevolently, 
as  she  went  back  to  her  Swedenborgian  studies. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

THE  NEAREST  WAY  TO  NORWAY. 

No  such  blessing  as  a good  night’s  rest  was  in  store  for  Violet 
Tempest  on  the  night  of  the  first  of  August.  She  lay  in  a state  of 
half- consciousness  that  was  near  akin  to  delirium.  When  she 
closed  her  eyes  for  a little  while  the  demon  of  evil  dreams  took 
hold  of  her.  She  was  in  the  old  familiar  home-scenes  with  her 
dear,  dead  father.  She  acted  ov^er  again  that  awful  tragedy  of 
sudden  death.  She  was  upbraiding  her  mother  a,bout  Captain 
Carmichael.  Bitter  words  were  on  her  lips;  words  more  bitter 
than  even  she  had  ever  spoken  in  all  her  intensity  of  averse  feel- 
ing. She  was  in  the  woody  hollow  by  Rufus’s  Stone,  blindfold, 
with  arms  stretched  helplessly  out  seeking  for  Rorie  among  the 
smooth  beech- holes,  whbh  a dreadful  sense  of  loneliness,  and 
a fear  that  he  was  far  away,  and  that  she  would  perisli,  lost 
and  alone,  in  that  dismal  wood. 

So  the  slow  night  wore  on  to  morning.  Sometimes  she  lay 
staring  idly  at  the  stars  shinning  so  serenely  in  that  calm  summer 
sk^^  She  wondered  what  life  was  like,  yonder,  in  those  remote 
worlds.  Was  humanity’s  portion  as  sad,  fate  as  adverse,  there 
as  here  ? Then  she  thought  of  Egypt,  and  Shakespeare’s  Antony 
and  Cleopatra — that  story  of  a wild,  undisciplined  love  grand  in 
its  lawless  passion — its  awful  doom.  To  have  loved  thus,  and 
died  thus,  seemed  a higher  destiny  than  to  do  right,  and 
patiently  conquer  sorrow,  and  live  on  somehow  to  the  dismal 
end  of  the  dull,  blameless  chapter. 

At  last,  with  w^hat  laggard  steps,  with  wdiat  oppressive  tardi- 
ness. came  the  dawn,  in  long  streaks  of  lurid  light  above  the  edge 
of  the  distant  waters. 

“‘Red  sky  at  morning  is  the  shepherd’s  warning!”’  cried 
Vixen,  wdth  dry  lips.  “Thank  God,  there  will  be  rain  to-day! 
Welcome  change  after  the  hot,  arid  skies,  and  the  cruel  brazen 
sun,  mocking  all  the  miseries  of  this  troubled  earth.” 

Siie  felt  almost  as  wildly  glad  as  the  Ancient  Mariner  at  the 
idea  of  that  blessed  relief;  and  then,  by  and  by,  with  the 
changeful  light  shining  on  her  face,  she  fell  into  a deep 
sleep. 

Perhaps  that  morning  sleep  saved  Vixen  from  an  impending 
fever.  It  was  the  first  refreshing  slumber  she  had  had  for  a 
week — a sweet,  dreamless  sleep.  The  breakfast  bell  rang  un- 


VIXEN. 


309 


heeded.  The  rain,  forecast  bj  that  red  shy,  fell  in  soft  showers 
upon  the  verdant  isle,  and  the  grateful  earth  gave  back  its 
sweetest  perfumes  to  the  cool,  moist  air. 

Miss  Skipvvith  came  softly  in  to  look  at  her  charge,  saw  her 
sleeping  peacefully,  and  as  softly  retired. 

“Poor  child!  the  initiation  has  been  too  much  for  her  um 
formed  mind,’'  .she  murmured,  complacently,  pleased  with  her- 
self for  liaving  secured  a disciple.  “ The  path  is  narrow  and 
rugged  at  the  beginning,  but  it  will  broaden  out  before  her  as 
she  goes  on.” 

Violet  av/oke  and  found  that  it  was  mid-day.  Oh,  what  a 
blessed  relief  that  long  morning  sleep  had  been!  She  woke  like 
a creature  cured  of  mortal  pain.  She  fell  on  her  knees  beside 
the  bed,  and  prayed  as  she  had  not  often  prayed  in  her  brief, 
careless  life. 

“Whet  am  I that  I should  question  Thy  justice!”  she  cried. 
“ Lord,  teach  me  to  submit,  teach  me  to  bear  my  burden  patient- 
ly, and  to  do  some  good  in  the  world.” 

Her  mood  and  temper  were  wcndrously  softened  after  a long 
interval  of  thought  and  prayer.  She  v/as  ashamed  of  her  way- 
wardness of  yesterday — her  foolish,  unreasonable  passion. 

“ Poor  Rorie,  I told  him  to  keep  his  promise,  and  he  hasobeyed 
me,”  she  said  to  herself.  “Can  I he  angry  with  him  for  that? 
I ought  to  feel  proud  and  glad  that  we  were  both  strong  enough 
to  do  our  duty.” 

She  dressed  slowly,  languid  after  tlie  excitement  of  yesterday, 
and  then  went  slowly  down  the  broad  bare  staircase  to  Miss 
Skipwith’s  parlor. 

The  lady  of  the  manor  received  her  with  affectionate  greeting, 
and  had  a special  pot  of  tea  brewed  for  lier,  and  insisted  upon 
her  eating  some  dry  toast,  a form  of  nourishment  winch  this 
temperate  lady  deemed  a panacea  in  illness. 

“ I was  positively  alarmed  about  you  last  night,  my  dear,”  she 
said;  “ you  were  so  feverish  and  excited.  You  read  too  much, 
for  the  first  day.” 

“I’m  afraid  1 did,”  assented  Vixen,  with  a faint  smile;  “ and 
the  worst  of  it  is,  I believe  J have  forgotten  every  word  I read.” 

“ Surely  not!”  cried  Miss  Skipwith,  horrified  at  this  admission. 
“ You  seemed  so  impressed — so  interested.  You  were  so  full  of 
your  subject.” 

“I  have  a faint  recollection  of  the  little  men  in  the  hiero- 
glyphics,” said  Vixen;  “but  all  the  rest  is  gone.  The  images  of 
Antony  and  Cleopatra,  in  Shakespeare’s  play,  bring  Egypt  more 
vividly  before  me  than  all  the  history  I read  yesterday” 

Miss  Skipwith  looked  shocked,  just  as  if  some  improper  char- 
acter in  real  life  had  been  brought  before  her. 

“ Cleopatra  was  very  disreputable,  and  she  was  not  Egyptian,” 
she  remarked,  severely.  “lam  sorry  you  should  waste  your 
thoughts  upon  such  a person.” 

“ I think  she  is  the  most  interesting  woman  in  ancient  his- 
tory,” said  Vixen,  willfully,  “as  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  is  in  mod- 
ern history.  It  is  not  the  good  people  whose  images  take  hold 
of  one’s  fancy.  What  a faint  idea  one  has  of  Lady  Jane  Grey. 


810 


VIXI^N. 


And,  in  Schiller's  Don  Carlos,  I confess  the  Marquis  of  Posa 
never  interested  me  half  so  keenly  as  Philip  of  Spain.” 

My  dear,  you  are  made  up  of  fancies  and  caprices.  Your 
mind  wants  balance,”  said  Miss  Skip  with,  affronted  at  this  friv- 
olity. ‘‘Had  you  not  better  go  for  a walk  with  your  dog ? Dod- 
dery tells  me  that  poor  Argus  has  not  had  a good  run  since  last 
week.” 

How  wicked  of  me!”  cried  Vixen.  “ Poor  old  fellow!  I had 
almost  forgotten  his  existence.  Yes,  I should  like  a long  walk, 
if  you  will  not  think  me  idle.” 

‘‘  You  studied  too  many  hours  yesterday,  my  dear.  It  will  do 
you  good  to  relax  the  bow  to-day.  ‘ A'  07i  semper  arcum  tendit 
Apollo, ” 

‘‘  I’ll  go  for  my  favorite  walk  to  Mount  Orgueil.  I don’t  think 
there’ll  be  any  more  rain.  Please  excuse  me  if  I am  not  home 
in  time  for  dinner.  I can  have  a little  cold  meat,  or  an  egg,  for 
my  tea.” 

“ You  had  better  take  a sandwich  with  you,”  said  Miss  Skip- 
with,  with  unusual  thoughtfulness.  “You  have  been  eating 
hardly  anything  lately.” 

Vixen  did  not  care  about  the  sandwich,  but  submitted,  to 
please  her  hostess,  and  a neat  little  paper  parcel,  containing 
about  three  ounces  of  nutriment,  was  made  up  for  her  by  Mrs. 
Doddery.  Never  had  the  island  looked  fairer  in  its  summer 
beauty  than  it  did  to-day,  after  the  morning's  rain.  These 
showers  had  been  to  Jersey  what  sleep  had  been  to  Vixen.  The 
air  was  soft  and  cool;  sparkling  rain-drops  fell  like  diamonds 
from  the  leaves  of  ash  and  elm.  The  hedge- row  ferns  had  taken 
a new  green,  as  if  the  spirit  of  spring  had  revisited  the  island. 
The  blue  bright  sea  was  dimpled  with  wavelets. 

What  a bright,  glad  world  it  was,  and  how  great  must  be  the 
sin  of  a rebellious  spirit,  caviling  at  the  dealings  of  its  Creator! 
The  happy  dog  bounced  and  bounded  round  his  mistress,  the 
birds  twittered  in  the  hedges,  the  passing  farm-laborer,  with  his 
cart-load  of  sea-weed,  smacked  his  whip  cheerily  as  lie  urged  his 
patient  horse  along  the  narrow  lane.  A huge  van-load  of  Cock- 
ney tourists,  singing  a boisterous  chorus  of  the  last  musia-hall 
song,  passed  Vixen  at  a turn  of  the  road,  and  made  a blot  on 
the  serene  beauty  of  the  scene.  They  were  going  to  eat  lobsters 
and  drink  bottled  beer  and  play  skittles  at  Le  Tac.  Vixen  re- 
joiced when  their  raucous  voices  died  away  on  the  summer 
breeze. 

“ Why  is  Jersey  the  peculiar  haunt  of  the  vulgar?”  she  won- 
dered. “ It  is  such  a lovely  place  that  it  deserves  to  be  visited 
by  something  better  than  the  refuse  of  Margate  and  Ramsgate.” 

There  was  a meadow  path  which  lessened  the  distance  be- 
tween Les  Tourelles  and  Mount  Orgueil.  Vixen  had  just  left 
the  road  and  entered  the  meadow  when  Argus  set  up  a joyous 
bark,  and  ran  back  to  salute  a passing  vehicle.  It  was  a St. 
Helier’s  fly,  driving  at  a tremendous  pace  in  the  direction  from 
which  she  had  come.  A young  man  lay  back  in  the  carriage, 
smoking  a cigar  with  his  hat  slouched  over  his  eyes.  Vixen  could 
just  see  the  strong  sunburned  hand  flung  up  above  his  head.  It 


VIXEN. 


ill 


was  a foolish  fancy,  doubtless,  but  that  broad  brown  hand  re- 
minded her  of  Rorie’s.  Argus  leaped  the  stile,  rushed  after  the 
vehicle,  and  saluted  it  clamorously.  The  poor  brute  had  been 
mewed  up  for  a week  in  a dull  court-yard,  and  was  rejoiced  at 
having  something  to  bark  at. 

Vixen  walked  onto  the  sea-shore,  and  the  smiling  little  harbor, 
and  the  brave  old  castle.  There  was  the  usual  party  of  tourists 
following  the  guide  through  narrow  passages  and  echoing 
chambers,  and  peering  into  the  rooms  where  Charles  Stuart 
endured  his  exile,  and  making  those  lively  remarks  and  specu- 
lations whereby  the  average  tourist  is  prone  to  reveal  his  hazy 
notions  of  history.  Happily.  Vixen  knew  of  quiet  corners  upon 
the  upward  walls,  whither  tourists  rarely  penetrated — nooks  in 
which  she  had  sat  through  many  an  hour  of  sun  and  shade,  read- 
ing, or  sketching  with  free  untutored  pencil,  for  the  mere  idle 
delight  of  the  moment.  Here  in  this  loneliness,  between  land 
and  sea,  she  had  nursed  her  sorrow  and  made  much  of  her  grief. 
She  liked  the  place.  ISIo  obtrusive  sympathy  had  ever  made  it 
odious  to  lier.  Here  she  was  mistress  of  herself  and  her  own 
thoughts.  To-day  she  went  to  her  favorite  corner,  a seat  in  an 
angle  of  the  battlement  wall,  and  sat  there,  with  her  arms  folded, 
on  the  stone  parapet,  looking  dreamily  seaward,  across  the  blue 
channel  to  the  still  bluer  coast  of  Normandy,  where  the  towera 
of  Coutances  showed  dimly  in  the  distance. 

Resignation.  Yes,  that  was  to  be  her  portion  henceforward. 
She  must  live  out  her  life  in  isolation  almost  as  complete  as  Miss 
Skipwith's.  without  the  innocent  delusions  which  gave  substance 
and  color  to  that  lonely  lady’s  existence. 

“ If  I could  only  have  a craze,”  she  thought,  hopelefisly,  “ some 
harmless  monomania  which  would  fill  my  mindl  The  maniacs 
in  Bedlam,  who  fancy  themselves  popes  or  queens,  are  happy  in 
their  foolish  way.  If  I could  only  imagine  myself  something 
which  I am  not — anything  except  poor  useless  Violet  Tempest, 
who  has  no  place  in  the  world!” 

The  sun  was  gaining  power,  the  air  was  drowsy,  the  soft  rip- 
ple of  the  tide  upon  the  golden  sand  was  like  a lullaby.  Even 
that  long  sleep  of  the  morning  had  not  cured  Vixen’s  weariness. 
There  were  long  arrears  of  slumber  yet  to  be  made  up.  Her 
eyelids  drooped,  then  closed  altogether;  the  ocean  lullaby  took  a 
still  softer  sound,  the  distant  voices  of  the  tourists  grew  in- 
finitely soothing,  and  Vixen  sank  quietly  to  sleep,  her  head  lean- 
ing on  her  folded  arms,  the  gentle  west  wind  faintly  stirring  her 
loose  hair. 

“Oh,  happy  kiss  that  woke  thy  sleep!”  cried  a familiar  voice 
close  in  the  slumberer’s  ear;  and  then  a warm  breath,  which  was 
not  the  summer  wind,  fanned  the  cheek  that  lay  upmost  upon  her 
arm,  two  warm  lips  were  pressed  against  that  glowing  cheek  in 
ardent  greeting.  The  girl  started  to  her  feet,  every  vein  tingl- 
ing with  the  thrilling  recognition  of  her  assailant.  There  was 
no  one  else — none  other  than  he — in  this  wide  world  who  would 
do  such  a thing!  She  sprang  up  and  faced  him,  her  eyes  flash- 
ing, her  cheeks  crimson. 


812 


VIXEN, 


“ How  dare  you!”  she  cried.  ‘‘  Then  it  was  you  I saw  in  the 
liy  r Pray,  is  this  the  nearest  way  to  Norway  ?” 

Yes,  it  was  Rorie;  looking  exactly  like  the  familiar  Rorie  of 
old,  not  one  whit  altered  by  marriage  with  a duke's  only  daugh- 
ter; a stalwart  young  fellow  in  a rough  gray  suit,  a dark  face 
sunburned  to  deepest  bronze,  eyes  with  a happy  smile  in  them, 
iirmly-cut  lips  half  hidden  by  the  tliick  brown  beard,  a face  that 
would  have  looked  well  under  a lifted  helmet — such  a face  as  the 
scared  Saxons  must  have  seen  among  the  bold  followers  of  Wil- 
liam the  Norman,  when  those  hardy  Norse  warriors  ran  amuck 
in  Dover  town. 

“Not  to  my  knowledge,”  ansvrered  this  audacious  villain,  in 
his  lightest  tone.  “I  am  not  very  geographical.  But  I should 
think  it  was  rather  out  of  the  way.” 

“ Then  you  and  Lady  Mabel  have  changed  your  plans  ?”  said 
Vixen,  trembling  very  much,  but  tiying  desperately  to  bo  as 
calmly  commonplace  as  a young  lady  talking  to  an  ineligible 
partner  at  a ball.  “You  are  not  going  to  the  north  of  Europe  ?” 

“ Lady  Mabel  and  I have  changed  our  plans.  We  are  not  go- 
ing to  tlie  north  of  Europe.” 

“Oh!” 

“ In  point  of  fact,  we  are  not  going  anywhere.” 

“ But  you  have  come  to  Jersey.  That  is  part  of  your  tour,  I 
suppose  f” 

“ Do  not  be  too  hasty  in  your  suppositions.  Miss  Tempest.  1 
have  come  to  Jersey — I am  quite  willing  to  admit  as  much  as 
that.” 

“ And  Lady  Mabel  ? She  is  with  you.  of  course?'’ 

“ Not  the  least  bit  in  the  world.  To  the  best  of  my  knowl- 
edge, Lady  Mabel — 1 beg  her  pardon^Lady  Mallow — is  now  on 
her  way  the  fishing-grounds  of  Connemara  wdth  her  husband.” 

“ Rorie!” 

What  a glad,  happy  cry  that  was!  It  v/as  like  a gush  of  sud- 
den music  from  a young  blackbird’s  throat  on  a sunny  spring 
morning.  The  crimson  dye  had  faded  from  Violet’s  cheeks  a 
minute  ago  and  left  her  deadly  pale.  Now  the  bright  color 
lushed  back  again,  the  happy  brown  eyes,  the  sw^eet  blush-rose 
lips,  broke  into  the  gladdest  smile  that  everRoiie  had  seen  upon 
her  face.  He  held  out  his  arms,  he  clasped  her  to  his  breast, 
where  she  rested  unresistingly,  infinitely  happy.  Great  Heaven! 
how  the  whole  world  and  herself  had  beconie  transformed  in 
this  moment  of  unspeakable  bliss!  Rorie,  the  lost,  the  surrend- 
ered, was  lier  own  true  lover  after  all! 

“Yes,  dear,  lobeyed  you.  You  were  hard  and  cruel  to  me 
that  night  in  the  fir  plantation;  but  I knew  in  my  heart  of 
hearts  that  you  were  wdse,  and  honest,  and  true;  and  I made  up 
my  mind  that  I would  keep  the  engagement  entered  up>on  beside 
my  mother’s  death-bed.  Loving  or  unloving,  1 would  marry 
Mabel  Ashbourne,  and  do  my  duty  to  her,  and  go  dowm  to  my 
grave  with  the  character  of  a good  and  faithful  husband,  as 
many  a man  has  done  who  never  loved  his  wife.  So  I held  on, 
Vixen — yes,  I will  call  you  by  the  old  pet  name  now;  hencefor- 
ward you  are  mine  and  I shall  call  you  what  I like — I held  on,  and 


VIXEN. 


313 


was  altogether  an  exemplary  lover;  went  wherever  I was  order- 
ed to  go,  and  always  came  when  they  wliistled  for  me;  rode  at 
my  lady’s  jog-trot  pace  in  the  Row,  stood  behind  her  chair  at 
the  opera,  endured  more  classical  music  than  ever  man  heard 
before  aud  lived,  listened  to  my  sweetheart’s  manuscript  verses, 
and,  in  a word,  did  my  duty  in  that  state  of  life  to  which  it  had 
pleased  God  to  call  me;  and  my  reward  lias  been  to  be  jilted  with 
every  circumstance  of  ignoiniu}"  on  my  wed  ding- morning.” 

‘ Jilted!”  cried  Vixen,  her  big  brown  eyes  shining,  in  pleasant- 
est mockery.  “ by,  I thought  Lady  Mabel  adored  you.?” 

“ So  did  I,”  answered  Roderick,  naively,  “ and  I pitied  the  poor 
dear  tiling  for  her  infatuation.  Had  I not  thought  that,  I should 
have  broken  my  bonds  long  ago.  It  was  not  the  love  of  the 
duke’s  acres  that  held  me.  I still  believe  that  Mabel  was  fond 
of  me  once,  but  Lord  Mallow  bowled  me  out.  His  eloquence, 
his  parliamentary  success,  and,  above  all,  his  flattery,  p roved  ir- 
resistible. The  scoundrel  brought  a marriage  certificate  in  his 
pocket  when  he  came  to  stay  at  Ashbourne,  and  had  the  art  to 
engage  rooms  at  Southampton  and  sleep  there  a night  en 
passant.  He  left  a portmanteau  and  a hat-box  there,  and  that 
constituted  legal  occupancy;  so,  when  he  won  Lady  Mabel’s 
consent  to  an  elopement — which  I believe  he  did  not  suc- 
ceed in  doing  till  the  night  before  our  intended  wed- 
ding-day— he  had  only  to  ride  over  to  Southampton  and  give 
notice  to  the  parson  and  clerk.  The  whole  thing  was  done 
splendidly.  Lady  Mabel  went  out  at  eight  o’clock,  under  the 
pretense  of  going  to  early  church.  Mallow  was  waiting  for  her 
with  a fly,  half  a mile  from  A^shbourne.  They  drove  to  South- 
ampton together,  and  were  married  at  ten  o’clock,  in  the  old 
church  of  St.  Michael;  while  the  distracted  duchess  and  lier 
women  were  hunting  everywhere  for  the  bride,  and  all  the 
visitors  at  Ashbourne  were  arraying  themselves  in  their  wedding 
finery,  and  the  village  children  were  filling  their  baskets  with 
flowers  to  strew  upon  the  pathway  of  the  happy  pair,  emblemat- 
ical of  the  flowers  which  do  not  blossom  in  the  highway  of  life, 
the  lady  was  over  the  border  with  Jock  o’  HazeJdeanI  Wasn't 
it  fun.  Vixen?” 

' And  the  jilted  one  flung  back  his  handsome  head  and  laughed 
long  and  loud.  It  was  too  good  a joke,  the  welcome  release 
coming  at  the  last  moment. 

“ At  half-past  ten  there  came  a telegram  from  my  runaway 
bride: 

“‘Ask  Roderick  to  forgive  me,  dear  mamma.  I found  at 
the  last  that  my  heart  was  not  mine  to  give,  and  I am  mar- 
ried to  Lord  Mallow.  I do  not  think  my  cousin  will  grieve  very 
much.’ 

“That  last  danse  was  sensible,  anyhow,  was  it  not.  Vixen?” 

“I  think  the  v/hole  business  was  very  sensible,”  said  Vixen, 
with  a sweet,  grave  smile;  “Ltird  Mallow  wanted  a clever  wife, 
and  you  did  not.  It  w as  very  wise  of  Lady  Mabel  to  find  that 
oat  before  it  was  too  late.” 


314 


VIXEN. 


‘‘She  will  be  very  happy  as  Lady  Mallow.”  said  RodericJr. 
“ Mallow  will  legislate  for  Ireland,  and  she  wall  rule  him.  He 
will  have  quite  enough  of  Home  Eule,  poor  beggar.  Hibernia 
will  be  Mabelized.  She  is  a dear  good  little  thing.  I quite  love 
her  now  she  bas  jilted  me.” 

“But  how  did  you  come  here?”  asked  Yixen,  looking  up  at 
her  lover  in  simple  wonder.  “ All  this  happened  only  yesterday 
morning.” 

“Is  there  not  a steamer  that  leaves  Southampton  nightly? 
Had  there  not  been  one,  I would  have  chartered  a boat  for  mV- 
self.  I would  have  come  in  a cockle-shell — I would  have  come 
with  a swimming-belt — I would  have  done  anything  wild  and 
adventurous  to  hasten  to  my  love.  I started  for  Southampton 
the  minute  I had  seen  that  too  blessed  telegram;  went  to  St. 
Michael’s,  saw  the  registry  with  its  entry  of  Lord  Mallow’s  mar- 
riage, hardly  dry  ; and  then  went  down  to  th«3  docks  and  booked 
my  berth.  Oh,  what  a long  day  yesterday  was — the  longest  day 
of  my  life!” 

“And  of  mine,”  sighed  Vixen,  between  tears  and  laughter, 
“ in  spite  of  the  shepherd  Kings.” 

“Are  those  Jersey  people  you  have  picked  up?”  Eorie  asked, 
innocent!}". 

This  turned  the  scale,  and  Yixen  burst  into  a joyous  peal  oi 
laughter. 

“ How  did  you  find  me  here  ?”  she  asked. 

“ Very  easily.  Your  custodian — ^what  a grim-looking  person- 
age she  is,  by  the  way — told  me  where  you  were  gone,  and  di- 
rected me  how  to  follow  you.  I told  her  I had  a most  im- 
portant message  to  deliver  to  you  from  your  mother.  You  don’t 
mind  that  artless  device,  I hope  ?” 

“ Not  much.  Howls  dear  mamma?  She  complains  in  her 
letters  of  not  feeling  very  well.” 

“ I have  not  seen  her  lately.  When  I did,  I thought  her  look- 
ing ill  and  worn.  She  will  get  well  when  you  go  back  to  her, 
Yixen.  Your  presence  will  be  like  sunshine.” 

“ I shall  never  go  back  to  the  Abbey  House.” 

“Yes,  you  will — for  one  fortnight  at  least.  After  that  your 
home  will  be  at  Briar  wood.  You  must  be  married  from  your 
father’s  house.” 

“ Who  said  I was  going  to  be  maiTied,  sir  ?”  asked  Yixen,  with 
delicious  coquetry. 

‘ ‘ I said  it — I say  it.  Do  you  think  I am  too  bold,  darling  ? 
Ought  I to  go  on  my  knees,  love,  and. make  you  a formal  offer? 
Why,  I have  loved  you  all  my  life;  and  I think  you  have  loved 
me  as  long.” 

So  I have,  Eorie,”  she  answered  softly,  shyly,  sweetly.  “I 
forswore  myself  that  night  in  the  fir-wood,  t always  "loved 
you;  there  was  no  stage  of  my  life  when  yon  were  not  dearer  to 
me  than  any  one  on  earth,  except  my  father.” 

“ Dear  love,  I am  ashamed  of  my  happiness,”  said  Eoderick, 
tenderly.  “ I have  been  so  weak  and  unworthy.  I gave  away 
my  hopes  of  bliss  in  one  foolishly  soft  moment,  to  gratify  my 
mother’s  dying  wish— a wish  that  had  been  dinned  into  my  ear 


VIXEN. 


315 


v>r  the  last  ypars  of  her  life — and  I have  done  nothing  but  re- 
itij  felly  ever  since.  Can  you  forgive  me,  Violet?  I shall 
forgive  myself.” 

“Let  the  past  be  like  a dream  that  we  have  dreamed . It  will 
make  the  fucure  seem  so  much  the  brighter.” 

“Yeb.” 

And  then  under  the  blue  August  sky,  fearless  and  unabashed, 
these  happy  lovers  gave  each  other  the  kiss  of  betrothal. 

“What  am  I to  do  with  you  ?”  Vixen  asked,  laughingly.  “ I 
ought  to  go  home  to  Les  Tourelles.” 

“ 1 on’t  you  think  you  might  take  me  wuth  you  ? I am  your 
young  man  now,  you  know.  I hope  it  is  not  a case  of  ‘ no  fol- 
lowers allowed.’  ” 

“I'm  afraid  Miss  Skip  with  will  feel  disappointed  in  me.  She 
thought  I was  going  to  have  a mission.” 

‘ ‘ A mission  ?” 

“Yes;  that  1 was  going  in  for  theology.  And  for  it  all  to  end 
in  my  being  engaged  to  be  married  I It  seems  such  a common- 
place ending,  does  it  not  ? ’ 

“Decidedly.  As  commonplace  as  the  destiny  of  Adam  and 
Eve,  vvhom  Go  1 joined  together  in  Eden.  Take  me  back  to  Les 
Tourelles,  Vixen.  I think  I shall  be  able  to  manage  IMiss  Skip- 
wit  b.” 

They  left  the  battlements,  and  descended  the  narrow  stairs, 
and  went  side  by  side,  through  sundit  fields  and  lanes,  to  the  old 
Carolian  manor-house,  happy  wnth  that  unutterable,  immeasur- 
able joy  which  belongs  to  happy  love,  and  to  love  only;  whether 
it  be  the  romantic  passion  of  a Juliet  leaning  from  her  balcony, 
the  holy  bliss  of  a mother  hangingover  her  child’s  cradle,  or  the 
sober  affection  of  a wife  who  has  seen  the  dawn  and  close  of  a 
silver  wedding,  and  yet  loves  on  with  love  unchangeable — a 
monument  of  constancy  in  an  age  of  easy  divorce. 

The  distance  was  long;  but  to  these  two  the  walk  was  of  the. 
shortest.  It  w^as  as  if  they  trod  on  flowers  or  airy  cloud,  so 
lightly  fell  their  footsteps  on  the  happy  earth. 

What  would  Miss  Skipwith  say  ? Vixen  laughed  merrily  at 
the  image  of  that  cheated  lady. 

“ To  think  that  all  my  Egyptian  researches  should  end  in — 
Antony  !”  she  said,  with  a joyous  look  at  her  lover,  who  required 
to  be  informed  which  Antony  she  meant. 

“ I remember  him  in  Plutarch,”  he  said.  “ He  was  a jolly  fel- 
low.” 

“ And  in  Shakespeare.” 

“ Connais pas.”  said  Korie.  “I’ve  read  some  of  Shakespeare’s 
plays,  of  course,  but  not  all.  He  wrote  toe  much.” 

It  was  five  o’clock  in  the  afternoon  when  they  arrived  at  Les 
Tourelles.  They  had  loitered  a little  in  those  sunny  lanes, 
stopping  to  look  seaward  through  a gap  in  the  hedge,  or  to  ex- 
amine a fern  which  was  like  the  ferns  of  Hampshire.  They  had 
such  a world  of  lovers*  nonsense  to  say  to  eacli  other,  such  con- 
fessions of  past  unhappiness,  such  schemes  of  future  bliss. 

“ I’m  afraid  you’ll  never  like  Eriarwood  as  well  as  the  Abbey 
House,”  said  Rorie,  humbly.  “ 1 tried  my  best  to  patch  it  up  for 


316 


VIXEN. 


Lady  Mabel;  for,  you  see,  as  I felt  I fell  short  in  the  matter  of 
affection,  1 wanted  to  do  the  right  thing  in  furniture  and  decora- 
tions. But  the  house  is  lamentably  modern  and  commonplace. 
I’m  afraid  you’ll  never  be  happy  there.” 

“ Eorie,  I could  be  happy  with  you  if  our  home  were  no  bet- 
ter than  the  charcoal-burner's  hut  in  Mark  Ash,”  protested 
Vixen. 

•‘It’s  very  good  of  you  to  say  that.  Do-you  like  sage-green?” 
Eorie  asked,  with  a doubtful  air. 

Fretty  well.  It  reminds  me  of  mamma’s  dress-maker, 
Madame  Theodore.” 

“Because  Mabel  insisted  upon  having  sage-green  curtains,  and 
chair-covers,  and  a sage-green  wall  with  a cliocolate  dado — did 
you  ever  hear  of  a dado  ? — in  the  new  morning-room  I built  for 
her.  I’m  rather  afraid  you  won’t  like  it;  I sliould  have  preferred 
pink  or  blue  myself,  and  no  dado.  It  looks  so  much  as  if  one 
had  run  short  of  wall-paper.  But  it  can  all  be  altered  by  and 
by,  if  you  don’t  like  it.” 

They  found  Miss  Skipwilb  pacing  the  weedy  gravel-walk  in 
front  of  her  parlor- window,  with  a disturbed  air,  and  a yellow 
envelope  in  her  hand. 

“ My  dear,  this  has  been  an  eventful  day,”  she  exclaimed.  “ I 
have  been  very  anxious  for  your  return.  Here  is  a telegram  for 
you;  and  as  it  is  the  first  you  have  had  since  you  have  been  stay- 
ing here,  I conclude  it  is  of  some  importance.” 

Vixen  took  the  envelope  eagerly  from  her  hand. 

“ If  you  were  not  standing  by  my  side,  a telegram  would 
frighten  me,”  she  whispered  to  Kodericx.  “ It  might  tell  me  you 
were  dead.” 

The  telegram  was  from  Captain  Carmichael  to  Miss  Tempest: 

“ Come  home  by  the  next  boat.  Your  mother  is  ill,  and  anx- 
ious to  see  you.  The  carriage  will  meet  you  at  Southampton.” 

Poor  Vixen  looked  at  her  lover  with  a conscience- stricken 
countenance. 

‘‘  Oh,  Eorie,  and  I have  been  so  wickedly,  wildly  happy!”  she 
cried,  as  if  it  were  a crime  to  have  so  rejoiced.  “ And  I made 
so  light  of  mamma’s  last  letter,  in  which  she  complained  of  being 
ill.  I hardly  gave  it  a thought.” 

“ I don’t  suppose  there  is  anything  very  wrong,”  said  Eorie,  in 
a comforting  tone,  after  he  had  studied  those  few  bold  words  in 
tlie  telegram,  trying  to  squeeze  the  utmost  meaning  out  of  tiie 
brief  sentence.  “ You  see.  Captain  Carmichael  does  not  say  that 
your  mother  is  dangerously  ill,  or  even  very  ill;  he  cnly  says  ill. 
That  might  mean  something  quite  insignificant — hay -fever,  or 
neuralgia,  or  a nervous  headache.” 

“ But  he  tells  me  to  go  home — be  who  hates  me,  and  was  so 
glad  to  get  me  out  of  the  house.” 

“ It  is  your  mother  who  summons  you  liomo,  no  doubt.  She 
is  mistress  in  her  own  house,  of  course.” 

“ You  would  not  say  that  if  you  knew  Captain  Carmiciiael.” 

They  were  alone  together  on  the  gravel- walk.  Miss  Skipwith 
having  retired  to  make  tea  in  her  dingy  parlor.  It  had  dawned 


VIXEN, 


817 


upon  her  that  this  visitor  of  Miss  Tempest’s  was  no  common 
friend;  and  she  liad  judiciously  left  the  lovers  togetlier.  “ Poor 
misguided  child,”  she  murmured  to  herself,  pityingly;  “just  as 
she  was  developing  a vocation  for  serious  things.  But  perhaps 
if  is  all  for  the  best.  I doubt  if  she  would  ever  have  had  breadth 
of  mind  to  grapple  with  the  great  problems  of  natural  religion.” 

“ Isn’t  it  dreadful  ?’  said  Vixen,  walking  up  and  down  with 
the  telegram  in  her  band.  “I  shall  have  to  endure  honr*^  of 
suspense  before  I can  know  how  my  poor  mother  is.  There  is 
no  boat  till  to-morrow  morning.  It’s  no  use  talking,  Eorie.” 
Mr.  Vawdrey  was  following  her  up  and  down  the  walk  affec- 
tionately, but  not  saying  a word.  “I  feel  convinced  that 
mamma  must  be  seriously  ill;  I should  not  be  sent  for  unless  it 
were  so.  In  all  her  letters  there  has  not  been  a word  about  my 
going  liome.  I was  not  wanted.” 

“ But,  dearest  love,  you  know  that  your  mother  is  apt  to  think 
seriously  of  trifles.” 

“ Borie,  you  told  me  an  hour  ago  that  she  was  looking  ill  when 
last  you  saw  her.” 

Roderick  looked  at  his  watch. 

“ There  is  one  thing  I might  do,”  he  said,  musingly.  “Has 
Miss  Skip  with  a horse  and  trap  ?” 

“Not  the  least  in  the  world.” 

“ That’s  a pity ; it  would  have  saved  time.  I’ll  get  down  to 
St.  Helier’s  somehow,  telegraph  to  Captain  Carmichael  to  inquire 
the  exact  state  of  your  mother’s  health,  and  not  come  back  till  I 
bring  you  his  answer.” 

“Oh,  Rorie,  that  would  be  good  of  you!”  exclaimed  Vixen. 
“ But  it  seems  too  cruel  to  send  you  away  like  that;  you  have 
been  traveling  so  long.  You  have  nothing  to  eat.  You  must 
be  dreadfully  tired.” 

“ Tired!  Have  I not  been  with  you  ? There  are  some  people 
whose  presence  makes  one  unconscious  of  humanity’s  weak- 
nesses. No,  darling,  I am  neither  tired  nor  hungry;  lam  only 
ineffably  happy.  I’ll  go  down  and  set  the  wares  in  motion;  and 
then  I’ll  find  out  all  about  the  steamer  for  to-morrow  morning, 
and  we  will  go  back  to  Hampshire  together.” 

And  again  the  rejoicing  lover  quoted  the  Laureate: 

“ And  on  her  lover’s  arm  she  leant 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold; 

And  far  across  the  hills  they  went, 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old  ” 

Korie  had  to  walk  all  the  way  to  St.  Heiier’s.  He  dispatched 
an  urgent  message  to  Captain  Carmichael,  and  then  diced  tem- 
perately at  a French  restaurant  not  far  from  the  quay,  where 
the  hon  vivants  of  Jersey  are  w^ont  to  assemble  nightly.  When 
be  had  dined  he  walked  about  the  harbor,  looking  at  the  ships, 
and  watching  the  lights  beginning  to  glimmer  frcm  the  barrack- 
windows.  and  the  straggling  street  along  the  shore,  and  the  far- 
off  beacons  shining  out,  as  the  rosy  sunset  darkened  to  purple 
flight. 

He  went  to  the  cfldce  two  or  three  times  beioie  the  return  mes- 


818  VIXEN, 

sage  bad  come;  but  at  last  it  was  lianded  to  him,  and  be  read  it 
by  the  office  lamp! 

Captain  Carmichael,  Abbey  House,  TTavipsMve,  to  Mr.  Vaw- 
drey,  St.  Heliers. 

“My  wife  is  seriously  ill,  but  in  no  immediate  danger.  The 
doctors  order  extreme  quiet;  all  agitation  is  to  be  carefully 
avoided.  Let  Miss  Tempest  bear  this  in  mind  when  she  comes 
home.” 

Eoderick  drove  back  to  Les  Tourelles  with  this  message,  whicn 
was  in  some  respects  reassuring,  or  at  any  r ate  afforded  a cer- 
tainty less  appalling  than  Violet’s  measureless  fears. 

Vixen  was  sitting  on  the  pilgrim’s  bench  beside  the  manor- 
house  gateway,  watching  for  her  lover’s  return.  Ob,  happy 
lover,  to  be  thus  w^atched  for  and  thus  w^elcomed ! thrice,  nay,  a 
thousand-fold  happy  in  the  certainty  that  she  w as  his  owm  for- 
ever! He  put  his  arm  round  her,  and  they  w^andered  along  the 
sbadov»7y  lane  together,  betw  een  dewy  banks  of  tangled  verdure, 
luminous  with  glow^-worms.  The  stars  w^ere  shining  above  the 
overarching  roof  of  foliage;  the  harvest  moon  was  rising  over 
the  distant  sea. 

“ What  a beautiful  place  Jersey  is!”  exclaimed  Vixen,  inno- 
cently, as  she  strolled  lower  down  tl  e lane,  circled  by  her  lover’s 
arm.  “ I had  no  idea  it  was  half  so  lovely.  But  then,  of  course, 
I was  never  allowed  to  roam  about  in  the  moonlight.  And,  in- 
deed, Rorie,  I think  w^e  had  better  go  in  directly;  Miss  Skipwdth 
will  be  wondering.”  

“ Let  her  w^onder,  lov^e.  I can  explain  everything  when  w^e 
go  in.  She  was  young  herself  once  upon  a time,  though  one 
would  hardly  give  her  credit  for  it;  and  you  may  depend  she  has 
w alked  in  this  lane  by  moonlight.  Yes,  by  the  light  of  that 
very  same  sober  old  moon,  wdio  has  looked  down  with  the  same 
indulgent  smile  upon  endless  generations  of  lovers.” 

“ From  Adam  and  Eve  to  Antony  and  Cleopatra,”  suggested 
Vixen,  who  couldn’t  get  Egypt  out  of  her  head. 

“ Antony  and  Cleopatra  w’ere  middle-aged  lovers,”  said  Rorie. 
“ The  moon  must  have  despised  them.  Youth  is  the  only  season 
when  love  is  v/isdom,  Vixen.  In  later  life  it  means  tolly  and 
driveling,  wrinkles  badly  hidden  under  paint,  penciled  e\e- 
brows,  and  false  hair.  Aphrodite  should  be  forever  young.” 

“Perhaps  that’s  why  the  poor  thing  puts  on  paint  and  false 
hair  when  she  finds  youth  departed,”  said  Vixen. 

“Then  she  is  no  longer  Aphrodite,  but  Venus  Pandemos,  and 
a wicked  old  harridan,”  answered  Rorie. 

And  then  be  began  to  sing,  with  a rich,  full  voice,  that  rolled 
far  upon  the  still  air: 

“ Gather  ye  rose-buds  while  ye  may; 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying; 

And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 
To-morrow  will  be  dying, 

“ Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 

And  while  ye  may,  go  marry;  '' 

For,  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 

You  may  forever  tarry.” 


VIXEN. 


319 


w What  a fine  voice  you  have,  Rorie!*’  cried  Vixen. 

Have  T,  really  ? I thought  that  it  was  only  Lord  Mallow 
who  could  sing.  Do  you  know  that  I was  desperately  jealous  of 
that  nobleman  once,  when  I fancied  he  was  singing  himself  into 
your  affections  ? Little  did  I think  that  he  was  destined  to  be- 
come your  greatest  benefactor.” 

I shall  make  you  sing  duets  with  me,  sir,  by  and  by.” 

“You  shall  make  me  stand  on  my  head,  or  play  clown  in  an 
amateur  pantomime,  or  do  anything  supremely  ridiculous,  if  you 
like.  ‘ Being  your  slave  what  can  I do * ” 

“ Yes,  you  must  sing  Mendelssohn  with  me — ‘ I would  that  my 
love,’  and  ‘ Greeting.’  ” 

“ I have  only  one  idea  of  greeting,  after  a cruel  year  of  parting 
and  sadness,”  said  Rorie,  drawing  the  bright  young  face  to  his 
own,  and  covering  it  with  kisses. 

Again  Vixen  urged  that  Miss  Skipwith  would  be  wondering, 
and  this  time  with  such  insistence  that  Rorie  was  obliged  to  turn 
back  and  ascend  the  hill. 

How  cruel  it  is  of  you  to  snatch  a soul  out  of  Elysium!”  he 
remonstrated.  “I  felt  as  if  I was  lost  in  some  happy  dream, 
wandering  down  this  path,  which  leads  I know  not  where,  into 
a dim,  wooded  vale,  such  as  the  fairies  love  to  inhabit.” 

“ The  road  leads  down  to  the  inn  at  Le  Tac,  where  Cockney  ex- 
cursionists go  to  eat  lobsters  and  play  skittles,”  said  Vixen, 
laughing  at  her  lover. 

They  went  back  to  the  manor-house,  where  they  found  Miss 
Skipwith  annotating  a tremendous  manuscript  on  blue  foolscap 
— a work  whose  outward  semblance  would  have  been  enough  to 
frighten  and  deter  any  publislier  in  his  right  mind. 

“ How  late  you  are,  Violet!”  she  said,  looking  up,  dreamily, 
from  her  manuscript.  “I  have  been  rewriting  and  polishing 
portions  of  my  essay  on  Buddha.  The  time  has  flown,  and  I 
had  no  idea  of  the  hour  till  Doddery  came  in,  just  now,  to  ask  if 
he  could  shut  up  the  house.  And  then  I remembered  that  you 
had  gone  out  to  the  gate  to  watch  for  Mr.  Vawdrey.” 

“ I’m  afraid  you  must  think  our  goings-on  rather  eccentric,” 
Rorie  began,  shyly;  “ but  perhaps  Vix — Miss  Tempest  has  told 
you  what  old  friends  we  are;  that,  in  fact,  I am  quite  the  oldest 
friend  she  has.  I came  to  Jersey  on  purpose  to  ask  her  to  marry 
me,  and  she  has  been  good  enough” — smiling  blissfully  at 
Vixen,  who  tried  to  look  daggers  at  him — “ to  say  yes.” 

“Dear  me!”  exclaimed  Miss  Skipwith,  looking  much  alarmed; 
“this  is  very  embarrassing.  I am  so  unversed  in  such  matters. 
My  life  has  been  given  up  to  study,  far  from  the  haunts  of  man. 
My  nephew  informed  me  that  there  was  a kind  of — in  point  of 
fact,  a flirtation  between  Miss  Tempest  and  a gentleman  in 
Hampshire,  of  which  he  highly  disapproved,  the  gentleman 
being  engaged  to  marry  his  cousin.” 

“It  was  I,”  cried  Rorie,  “ but  there  was  no  flirtation  between 
Miss  Tempest  and  me.  Whoever  asserted  such  a thing  was  a 
slanderer  and — I won’t  offend  you  by  saying  what  he  was,  Miss 
Skipwith.  There  was  no  flirtation.  I was  Miss  Tempest’s  oldest 
friend— her  old  playfellow,  and  we  liked  to  see  each  other,  and 


320 


VIXEN. 


were  al^^^ays  friendly  together;  but  it  was  an  understood  thins? 
that  I wa^  to  marry  my  cousin.  It  was  Miss  Tempest’s  particular 
desire  that  I should  keep  an  eogagemenb  made  beside  my- 
mothers  death-bed.  If  Miss  Tempest  bad  thought  otherwise,  1 
should  have  been  at  her  feet.  I would  have  flung  that  engage- 
ment to  the  winds,  for  Violet  Tempest  is  the  only  woman  I ever 
loved.  And  now  all  the  world  may  know  it,  for  my  cousin  has 
jilted  me,  and  I am  a free  man.” 

“Good  gracious!  Can  I really  believe  this?”  asked  Miss 
Skipwith,  appealing  to  Violet. 

“ Eorie  never  told  a falsehood  in  his  life,”  Vixen  answered, 
proudly. 

“ I feel  myself  in  a most  critical  position,  my  dear  child,”  said 
Miss  Skipwith,  looking  from  Eoderick’s  frank,  eager  face  to 
Vixen’s  downcast  eyelids  and  mantling  blushes.  “ I had  hoped 
such  a different  fate  for  you.  I thought  the  thirst  for  knowledge 
had  arisen  within  you;  that  the  aspiration  to  distinguish  yourself 
from  the  ruck  of  ignorant  women  would  follow  the  arising  of 
that  thirst,  in  natural  sequence.  And  here  I find  you  willing  to 
maiTv  a gentleman  who  happens  to  have  been  the  companion  of 
your  childhood,  and  to  resign — ^for  his  sake — all  hopes  of  dis- 
tinction.” 

“ My  chances  of  distinction  were  so  small,  dear  Miss  Skipwith,” 
faltered  Vixen.  “ If  I had  possessed  your  talents!” 

“ True,”  sighed  tlie  reformer  of  all  the  theologies.  “ We  have 
not  all  tlie  same  gifts.  There  was  a day  when  I thought  it  would 
be  my  lot  to  marry  and  subside  into  the  dead  level  of  domesticity; 
but  I am  thankful  to  think  I escaped  the  snare.” 

“ And  the  gentleman  who  wanted  to  marry  you,  how  thankful 
must  he  be!”  thought  Eorie,  dumbly. 

“ Yet  there  have  been  moments  of  depression  when  I have 
been  weak  enough  to  regret  those  early  days,”  sighed  Miss  Skip- 
with. “ At  best  our  strength  is  tempered  with  weakness.  It  is 
the  fate  of  genius  to  be  lonely.  And  now  I suppose  I am  to  lose 
you,  Violet?” 

“I  am  summoned  home  to  poor  mamma,”  said  Vixen. 

“ And  after  poor  mamma  has  recovered,  as  I hope  she  speed- 
ily may,  Violet  will  be  wanted  by  her  poor  husband,”  said  Eorie. 
“ You  must  come  across  the  sea  and  dance  at  our  wedding,  Miss 
Skipwith.” 

“Ah,”  sighed  Miss  Skipwith,  “if  you  could  but  have  waited 
for  the  establishment  of  my  universal  church,  what  a grand 
ceremonial  your  marriage  might  have  been?” 

Miss  Skipwith,  thougli  regretful,  and  inclined  to  take  a dismal 
view  of  the  marriage  state  and  its  responsibilities  under  the  ex- 
isting dispensation,  was  altogether  friendly.  She  had  a frugal 
supper  of  cold  meat  and  salad,  bread -and -cheese  and  cider, 
served  in  honor  of  Mr.  Vawdroy,  and  they  three  sat  till  mid- 
night talking  happily — Miss  Skipwith  of  theology,  the  other  two 
of  themselves  and  the  smiling  future,  and  such  an  innocent  for- 
est life  as  Eosalind  and  Orlando  may  have  promised  themselves, 
when  they  were  deep  in  love,  and  the  banished  duke’s  daughtet 


VIXEN.  821 

sighed  for  no  wider  kingdom  than  a shepherd’s  hut  in  the  wood- 
land, with  the  lover  of  her  choice. 

There  were  plenty  of  spare  bedrooms  at  the  manor-house,  but 
so  bare  and  empty,  so  long  abandoned  of  human  occupants,  as  to 
be  fit  only  for  the  habitation  of  mice  and  spiders,  stray  bat  or 
wandering  owl.  So  Roderick  had  to  walk  down  the  hill  again 
to  St.  Helier’s,  where  he  found  hospitality  at  a hotel.  He  was 
up  betimes,  too  happy  to  need  much  sleep,  and  at  seven  o’clock 
he  and  Vixen  were  walking  in  the  dewy  garden,  planning  the 
wonderful  life  they  were  to  lead  at  Briarwood,  and  all  the  good 
they  were  to  do.  Happiness  was  to  radiate  from  their  home,  as 
heat  from  the  sun.  The  sick  and  the  halt  and  the  lame  were  to 
come  to  Briarwood : as  they  had  come  to  the  Abbey  House  before 
Captain  Carmichael’s  barren  rule  of  economy. 

“God  has  been  so  good  to  us,  Rorie,”  said  Vixen,  nestling  at 
her  lover’s  side.  “ Can  we  ever  be  good  enough  to  others?” 

“ We’ll  do  our  best,  anyhow,  little  one,”  he  answered,  gently. 
“I  am  not  like  Mallow — I’ve  no  great  ideas  about  setting  my 
native  country  in  order  and  doing  away  with  the  poor-laws;  but 
I’ve  always  tried  to  make  the  people  round  me  happy,  and  to 
keep  them  out  of  the  work-house  and  the  county  jail.” 

They  went  to  the  court-yard  where  poor  Argus  lived  his  life 
of  isolation,  and  they  told  him  they  were  going  to  be  married, 
and  that  his  pathway  hencefoiward  would  be  strewn  v/ith  roses, 
or  at  all  events  Spratt’s  biscuits.  He  was  particularly  noisy  and 
demonstrative,  and  appeared  to  receive  these  news  with  a wild 
rapture  that  was  eminently  encouraging,  doing  his  best  to  knock 
Roderick  down  in  the  tumult  of  his  delight.  The  lovers  and  the 
dog  were  alike  childish  in  their  infinite  happiness,  unthinking 
beings  of  the  present  hour,  too  happy  to  look  backward  or  for- 
ward, this  little  space  of  time  called  “now”  holding  all  things 
needful  for  delight. 

These  are  the  rare  moments  of  life  to  which  the  heart  of  man 
cries,  “ Oh,  stay,  thou  art  so  beautiful !”  and  could  the  death-bell 
toll  then,  and  doom  come  then,  life  would  end  in  a glorious  eu 
thanasia. 

Violet's  portmanteaus  were  packed.  All  was  ready.  Tkero 
would  be  just  time  for  a hurried  breakfast  with  Miss  Skipworth, 
and  then  the  fly  from  St.  Helier’s  would  be  at  the  gate  to  carry 
the  exile  on  the  first  stage  of  the  journey  home. 

“Poor  mamma!”  sighed  Vixen,  “How  wicked  of  me  to  feel 
so  happy,  when  she  is  ill  ?” 

And  then  Rorie  comforted  her  with  kindly-meant  sophistries. 
Mrs.  Carmichael's  indisposition  was  doubtless  more  an  affair  of 
the  nerves  than  a real  illness.  She  would  be  cheered  and  re- 
vived immediately  by  her  daughter’s  return. 

“ How  could  she  suppose  she  would  be  able  to  live  without 
you!”  cried  Rorie.  “ I know  I found  life  hard  to  bear.” 

^ “ Yet  you  bore  it  for  more  than  a year  with  admirable  pa- 
tience,” retorted  Vixen,  laughing  at  him;  “ and  I do  not  find  you 
particularly  altered  or  emaciated.” 

“ Oh,  I used  to  eat  and  drink,”  said  Rorie,  with  a look  of  self- 
contempt, “I’m  afraid  I’m  a horribly  low-minded  brute,  I 


832 


VIXEN.' 


used  even  to  enjoy  my  dinner,  sometimes,  after  a long  country 
ride;  but  1 could  never  make  you  understand  what  a bore  life 
was  to  me  all  last  year,  how  the  glory  and  enjoyment  seemed  to 
have  gone  out  of  existence.  The  dismal  monotony  of  my  days 
weighed  upon  me  like  a nightmare.  Life  had  become  a formula. 
1 felt  like  a sick  man  who  has  to  take  so  many  doses  of  medi- 
cine,  so  many  pills,  so  many  basins  of  broth,  in  the  twenty -four 
hours.  There  was  no  possible  resistance.  The  sick-nurse  was 
there,  in  the  shape  of  Fate,  ready  to  use  brute  force  if  I rebelled. 
I never  did  rebel.  I assure  you,  Vixen,  I was  a model  lover. 
Mabel  and  I had  not  a single  quarrel.  I think  that  is  a proof 
that  we  did  not  care  a straw  for  each  other.” 

“You  and  I will  have  plenty  of  quarrels,”  said  Vixen.  “It 
will  be  so  nice  to  make  friends  again.” 

Now  came  the  hurried  breakfast — a cup  of  tea  drunk  standing, 
not  a crumb  eaten;  agitated  adieux  to  Miss  Skip  with,  who  wept 
very  womanly  tears  over  her  departing  charge,  and  uttered  good 
wishes  in  a choking  voice.  Even  the  Dodderys  seemed  to  Vixen 
more  human  than  usual,  now  that  she  was  going  to  leave  them, 
in  all  likelihood  forever.  Miss  Skipwith  came  to  the  gate  to  see 
the  travelers  off,  and  ascended  the  pilgrim’s  bench  in  order  to 
have  the  latest  view  of  the  fly.  From  this  eminence  she  waved 
her  handkerchief  as  a farewell  salutation. 

“Poor  soul!”  siglied  Vixen;  “she  has  never  been  unkind  to 
me;  but  oh,  what  a dreary  life  I have  led  in  that  dismal  old 
house!” 

They  had  Argus  in  the  fly  with  them,  sitting  up,  with  his 
mouth  open,  and  his  tail  flapping  against  the  bottom  of  the 
vehicle  in  perpetual  motion.  He  kept  giving  his  paw  first  to 
Vixen  and  then  to  Rorie,  and  exacted  a great  deal  of  attention, 
insomuch  that  Mr.  Vawdrey  exclaimed: 

“ Vixen,  if  you  don’t  keep  that  dog  within  bounds,  I shall 
think  him  as  great  a nuisance  as  a step-son.  I offered  to  marry 
you,  you  know,  not  you  and  your  dog.” 

“ You  are  very  rude  !”  cried  Vixen. 

“ You  don’t  expect  me  to  be  polite,  I hope.  What  is  the  use  of 
tnarrying  one’s  old  playfellow  if  one  cannot  be  uncivil  to  her 
bow  and  then?  To  me  you  will  always  be  the  taw’ny-haired 
little  girl  I used  to  tease.” 

“Who  used  to  tease  you,  you  mean.  You  were  very  meek  in 
those  days.” 

Oh,  what  a happy  voyage  that  was,  over  the  summer  sea  I 
They  sat  side  by  side  upon  the  bridge,  sheltered  from  wnnd  and 
feun,  and  talked  the  happy  nonsense  that  lovers  talk  ; but  which 
can  liardly  be  so  sweet  between  lovers  whose  youth  and  childhood 
have  been  spent  far  apart,  as  between  these  two  who  had  been  rear- 
ed amidst  the  same  sylvan  world,  and  had  every  desire  and  every 
thought  in  unison.  How  brief  the  voyage  seemed  ! It  was  but 
an  hour  or  so  since  Roderick  had  been  buymg  peaches  and  grapes, 
as  they  lay  at  the  end  of  the  pier  at  Guernsey,  and  here  were  the 
Needles  and  the  chalky  cliffs  and  undulating  downs  of  the  Wight. 
The  Wight ! That  meant  Hampshire  and  home  I 

“ How  often  those  downs  have  been  our  weather-glass,  Rorie, 


VIXEN.  823 

when  we  have  been  riding  across  the  hills  between  Lyndhurst 
and  Beaulieu  !”  said  Vixen. 

She  had  a world  of  questions  to  ask  him  about  all  that  had 
happened  during  her  exile.  She  almost  expected  to  hear  that 
Lyndhurst  steeple  had  fallen  ; that  the  hounds  had  died  of  old 
age  ; that  the  Knightwood  Oak  had  been  struck  by  lightning ; 
or  that  some  among  those  calamities  which  time  naturally 
brings  had  befallen  the  surroundings  of  her  home.  It  was  the 
strangest  thing  in  the  world  to  hear  that  nothing  had  happened 
that  everything  was  exactly  the  same  as  it  had  been  when  she 
went  away.  That  dreary  3 ear  of  exile  had  seemetl  long  enough 
for  earthquakes  and  destructions,  or  even  for  slow  decay. 

“Do  you  know  what  became  of  Arion?  asked  Vixen,  almost 
afraid  to  shape  the  question. 

“Oh,  I believe  he  was  sold,  soon  after  you  left  home,”  Eorie 
answered,  carelessly. 

“Sold!”  echoed  Vixen,  drearily.  “Poor  dear  thing!  Yes,  I 
felt  sure  Captain  Carmichael  would  sell  him.  But  I hoped ” 

“What?” 

“That  some  one  I knew  might  buy  him.  Lord  Mallow, 
perhaps.” 

“ Lord  Mallow!  Ah,  you  thought  he  would  buy  your  horse, 
for  love  of  the  I'ider.  But  you  see  constancy  isn’t  one  of  that 
noble  Irishman’s  virtues.  He  loves  and  he  rides  away — when  the 
lady  won’t  have  him,  hien  entendu.  No,  Arion  was  sent  up  to 
Tattersall’s,  and  disposed  of  in  the  usual  way.  Some  fellow 
bought  him  for  a covert  hack.” 

“ I hope  the  man  wasn’t  a heavy-weight,”  exclaimed  Vixen, 
almost  in  tears. 

She  thought  Rorie  was  horribly  unfeeling. 

“ What  does  it  matter?  A horse  must  earn  his  salt.” 

“ I had  rather  my  poor  pet  had  been  shot,  and  buried  in  one 
of  the  meadows  at  home,”  said  Vixen,  plaintively,” 

“ Captain  Carmichael  was  too  wise  to  allow  that.  Your  poor 
pet  fetched  a hundred  and  forty-five  guineas  under  the 
hammer.” 

“ I don’t  think  it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  talk  of  him  so  lightly.” 
said  Vixen. 

This  was  the  only  little  cloud  that  came  between  them  in  all 
the  voyage.  Long  before  sunset  they  were  steaming  into  South- 
ampton  Water,  and  the  yellow  light  was  still  shining  on  the 
furzy  levels,  when  the  brougham  that  contained  Vixen  and  her 
fortunes  drove  along  the  road  to  Lyndhurst. 

She  had  asked  the  coachman  for  news  of  his  mistress,  and  had 
been  told  that  Mrs.  Carmichael  was  pretty  much  the  same.  The 
answer  was  in  some  measure  reasruring;  yet  Violet’s  spirits  be- 
gan to  sink  as  she  drew  nearer  home,  and  must  so  soon  find  her- 
self face  to  face  with  the  truth.  There  was  a sadness  too  in 
that  quiet  evening  hour;  and  the  shadowy  distances  seemed  full 
of  gloom,  after  the  dancing  waves,  and  the  gay  morning  light. 

The  dusk  was  creeping  slowly  on  as  the  carriage  passed  the 
lodge,  and  drove  between  green  walls  of  rhododendron  to  the 
bouse.  Captain  Carmichael  was  smoking  his  cigar  in  the  porch, 


824  VIXEN. 

leanmg  against  the  Gothic  masonry,  in  tlie  attitude  Vixen  knew 
so  well  of  old. 

‘‘  If  my  mother  were  lying  in  her  cofBn,  I dare  say  he  would 
be  jest  the  same/’  she  thought,  bitterly. 

The  captain  came  down  to  open  the  carriage  door.  Vixen’s 
first  glance  at  his  face  showed  her  that  he  looked  worn  aikd 
anxious. 

“ Is  mamma  very  il]  ?”  she  asked,  tremulously. 

“Very  ill,”  he  answered,  in  a low  voice.  “ Mind,  you  are  to 
do  or  say  nothing  that  can  agitate  her.  You  must  be  quiet  and 
cheerful.  If  you  see  a change,  you  must  take  care  to  say  noth- 
ing about  it.” 

“Why  did  you  leave  me  so  long  in  ignorance  of  her  illness  ? 
Why  did  you  not  send  for  me  sooner  ?” 

“Your  mother  has  only  been  seriously  ill  within  the  past  few 
days.  I sent  for  you  dkectly  I saw  any  occasion  for  your  pres- 
ence,” the  captain  answered,  coldly. 

He  now  for  the  first  time  became  aware  of  Mr.  Vawdrey,  who 
had  got  out  of  the  brougham  on  the  other  side  and  came  round 
to  assist  in  the  unshipment  of  Violet’s  belongings. 

“Good-evening,  Mr.  Vawdrey.  Where  in  Heaven's  name 
did  you  spring  from?”  he  inquired,  with  a vexed  air. 

“ I have  had  the  honor  of  escorting  Miss  Tempest  from  Jer- 
sey, where  I happened  to  be  when  she  received  your  telegram.” 

“Wasn't  that  rather  an  odd  proceeding,  and  likely  to  cause 
scandal?” 

“ I think  not;  for  before  people  can  hear  that  Miss  Tempest  and 
I crossed  in  the  same  boat  1 hope  they  will  have  heard  that  Miss 
Tempest  and  I are  going  to  be  married.” 

“I see,”  cried  the  Captain,  with  a short  laugh  of  exceeding 
bitterness;  “being  off  with  the  old  love,  you  have  made  haste  to 
be  on  with  the  new.” 

“ I beg  your  pardon.  It  is  no  new  love,  but  a love  as  old  as 
niy  boyhood,  answered  Eorie.  “ In  one  weak  moment  of  my 
life  I was  foolish  enough  to  let  my  mother  choose  a wife  for 
me,  though  I had  made  my  own  choice,  unconsciously,  years 
before.’’ 

“ May  I go  to  mamma  at  once?”  asked  Vixen. 

The  captain  said  Yes,  and  she  went  up  the  staircase  and  along 
the  corridor  to  Mrs.  Carmichael’s  room.  Oh,  how  dear  and 
familiar  the  old  house  looked,  how  full  of  ricliness  and  color 
after  the  bareness  and  decay  of  Les  Tourelles;  brocaded  curtains 
hanging  in  heavy  folds  against  the  carved  oaken  frame- work  of 
a deep-set  window;  gleams  of  evening  light  stealing  through 
old  stained  glass;  everywhere  a rich  variety  of  form  and  hue 
that  filled  and  satisfied  the  eye;  a house  worth  living  in  assured- 
ly, with  but  a little  love  to  sanctify  and  hallow  all  these  things. 
But  how  worthless  these  things  if  discord  and  hatred  found  a 
habitation  among  them. 

The  door  of  Mrs.  Carmichael’s  room  stood  half  open,  and  the 
lamp-light  shone  faintly  from  within.  Violet  ’went  softly  in. 
Her  mother  was  lying  on  a sofa  by  the  hearth,  where  a wood- 
fire  had  been  newly  lighted.  Pauline  was  sitting  opposite  her, 


Vixinjyi. 


825 


reading  aloud  in  a very  sleepy  voice  out  of  the  Court  Journal: 
“ The  bride  was  exquisitely  attired  in  ivory  satin,  with  flounces 
of  old  Duchesse  lace,  the  skirt  covered  with  tulle,  bouillone,  and 
looped  with  garlands  of  orange-blossom  — ” 

“Pauline,”  murmured  the  invalid,  feebly,  “will  you  never 
learn  to  read  wdth  expression?  You  are  giving  me  the  vaguest 
idea  of  Lady  Evelyn  Fitzdamers  appearance.” 

Violet  went  over  to  the  sofa  and  knelt  by  her  mother’s  side 
and  embraced  her  tenderly,  looking  at  lier  earnestly  ail  the 
while,  in  the  char,  soft  lamp-light.  Yes,  there  was  indeed  a 
change.  The  always  delicate  face  was  pinched  and  shrunken. 
The  ivory  of  the  complexion  had  altered  to  a dull  gray.  Pre- 
mature age  had  hollowed  the  cheeks,  and  lined  the  forehead.  It 
was  a ci.ange  that  meant  decline  and  death.  Violet’s  heart  sank 
as  she  beheld  it;  but  sh.e  remembered  the  captain’s  warning,  and 
bravely  strove  to  put  on  an  appearance  of  cheerfulness. 

“ Dear  mother,  I am  so  happy  to  come  home  to  you,”  she  said, 
gayly;  “ and  I am  going  to  nurse  and  pet  you,  for  the  next  week 
or  so;  till  you  get  tremendously  well  and  strong,  and  are  able  to 
take  me  to  innum^^rable  parties.” 

“ My  dear  Violet,  I liave  quite  given  up  parties;  and  I shall 
never  be  strong  again.” 

“ Dearest,  it  has  always  been  your  habit  to  fancy  yourself  an 
invalid.” 

“ Yes,  Violet,  once  I may  have  been  full  of  fancies:  but  now 
I know  that  I am  ill.  You  will  not  be  unkind  or  unjust  to  Con- 
rad, will  you,  dear.  He  sput  for  you  directly  I asked  him.  He 
has  been  all  goodness  to  me.  Try  and  get  on  with  him  nicely, 
dear,  for  my  sake.” 

This  was  urged  with  such  piteous  supplication,  that  it  would 
have  needed  a harder  heart  than  Violet’s  to  deny  the  prayer. 

“ Dear  mother,  forget  that  the  captain  and  I ever  quarreled,” 
said  Vixen.  “ I mean  to  l>e  excellent  friends  with  him  hence- 
forward. And,  darling,  I have  a secret  to  teil  you  if  you  would 
like  to  hear  it.” 

“What  secret,  dear?” 

“Lady  Mabel  Ashbourne  has  jilted  Roderick!” 

“ My  love,  that  is  no  secret.  I heard  all  about  it  day  before 
yesterday.  People  have  talked  of  nothing  else  since  it  happened. 
Lady  Mabel  has  behaved  shamefully.” 

“Lady  Mabel  has  behaved  admirably.  If  other  women  w’ere 
wise  enough  to  draw  back  at  the  last  moment,  there  would  be 
fewer  unhappy  marriages.  But  Lady  Mabel’s  elopement  is  only 
the  prologue  to  my  story.” 

“ What  can  you  mean,  child?” 

“ Roderick  came  to  Jersey  to  make  me  an  offer.” 

“ So  soon!  Oh,  Violet,  what  bad  taste!” 

“Ought  he  to  have  gone  into  mourning?  He  did  not  even 
sing  willow,  but  came  straight  off  to  me,  and  told  me  he  had 
loved  me  all  his  life;  so  now  you  v/ili  have  my  trousseau  to  think 
about,  dearest,  and  I shall  want  all  your  good  taste.  You  know 
bow  little  I have  of  my  own.” 

“Ahr  Violet,  if  vou  had  only  married  Lord  Mallow!  I could 


826 


VlXEir. 


have  giveD  my  whole  mind  to  your  trousseau  then;  but  it  is  too 
late  now,  dear.  I have  not  sti-ength  enough  to  interest  myself 
in  anything.” 

The  truth  of  this  complaint  was  painfully  obvious.  Pamela’s 
day  was  done.  She  lay,  half  effaced  among  her  down  pillows, 
as  weak  and  helpless  looking  as  a snow-drop  whose  stem  is 
broken.  The  life  tliat  was  left  in  her  was  the  merest  remnant 
of  life.  It  was  as  if  one  could  see  the  last  sands  running  down 
in  the  glass  of  time. 

Violet  sat  by  her  side,  and  pressed  her  cold  hands  in  both  her 
own.  Mrs.  Carmichael  was  very  cold,  although  the  log  had 
blazed  up  fiercely,  and  the  room  seemed  stifling  to  the  traveler 
who  had  come  out  of  the  cool  night  air. 

“ Dear  mother,  there  will  be  no  pleasure  for  me  in  being  mar- 
ried if  you  do  not  take  an  interest  in  my  trousseau,'^  pleaded 
Vixen,  trying  to  cheer  the  invalid  by  dwelling  on  the  things  her 
soul  had  most  loved  in  health. 

“ Do  not  talk  about  it,  my  dear,”  her  mother  exclaimed,  pee- 
vishly. ‘ ‘ I don’t  know  where  the  money  is  to  come  from.  Theo- 
dore’s bill  was  positively  dreadful.  Poor  Conrad  had  quite  a 
struggle  to  pay  it.  You  will  be  rich  when  you  are  of  age,  but 
we  are  awfully  poor.  If  we  do  not  save  money  during  the  next 
few  years  we  shall  be  destitute.  Conrad  says  so.  Fifteen  hun- 
dred a year,  and  a big  house  like  this  to  maintain.  It  would  be 
starvation.  Conrad  has  closed  Theodore’s  account.  I am  sure  I 
don’t  know  where  your  trousseau  is  to  come  from.” 

Here  the  afflicted  Pamela  began  to  sob  hysterically,  and  Vixen 
found  it  hard  work  to  comfort  her. 

“ My  dearest  mother,  how  can  you  be  poor  and  I rich?”  she 
said,  when  the  invalid  had  been  tranquilized,  and  was  lying 
helpless  and  exhausted.  “ Do  you  suppose  I Avould  not  share 
my  income  with  you?  Rorie  has  plenty  of  money.  He  would 
not  want  any  of  mine.  You  can  have  it  all,  if  you  like.” 

“You  talk  like  a child,  Violet.  You  know  nothing  of  the 
world.  Do  you  think  I would  take  your  money,  and  let  peoj^le 
say  I robbed  my  own  daughter  ? I have  a little  too  much  self- 
respect  for  that.  Conrad  is  doing  all  he  can  to  make  our  future 
comfortable.  I have  been  foolish  and  extravagant ; but  I shall 
never  be  so  any  more.  I do  not  care  about  dress  or  society  now. 
I have  outlived  those  follies.” 

“ Dear  mother,  I cannot  bear  to  hear  you  talk  like  that,”  said 
Vixen,  feeling  that  when  her  mother  left  off  caring  about  fine 
dresses  she  must  be  getting  ready  for  that  last  garment  which 
we  must  all  wear  some  day,  the  fashion  whereof  changes  but 
little.  “ Why  should  you  relinquish  society,  or  leave  off  dress- 
ing stylishly?  You  are  in  the  prime  of  life.” 

“No.  Violet,  I am  a poor  faded  creature,”  vhlmpered  Mrs. 
Carmichael ; “ stout  women  are  handsome  at  forty,  or  even  ” — 
with  a shudder — “ five-and-forty.  The  age  si  i s their  style. 
But  I was  always  slim  and  fragile,  and  of  late  I have  grown 
painfully  thin.  No  one  but  a Parisian  dress-maker  could  make 
me  presentable ; and  I have  done  with  Paris  dresses.  The 


VIXEN.  827 

utmost  I can  hope  for  is  to  sit  alone  by  the  fireside,  and  work 
antimacassars  in  crewels.” 

“ But,  dear  mother,  you  did  not  marry  Captain  CaTmichael  in 
order  to  lead  such  a life  as  that?  You  might  as  well  be  in  a 
qeguinage,^^ 

Vain  were  Vixen’s  efforts  to  console  and  cheer.  A blight  had 
fallen  upon  her  mother’s  mind  and  spirits — a blight  that  had 
crept  slowly  on,  unheeded  by  the  husband — till  one  morning  the 
local  practitioner — a gentleman  who  had  lived  all  liis  life  among 
his  patients,  and  knew  them  so  well  externally  that  he  might 
fairly  be  supposed  to  have  a minute  acquaintance  with  their 
internal  organism — informed  Captain  Carmichael  that  he  feared 
there  was  something  wrong  with  his  wife's  heart,  and  that  he 
thought  that  it  would  be  well  to  get  the  highest  opinion. 

The  captain,  startled  out  of  his  habitual  self  command,  looked 
up  from  his  desk  with  an  ashy  countenance. 

“Do  you  mean  that  Mrs.  Carmichael  has  heart  disease— 
something  organically  wrong?” 

“ Unhappily  I fear  it  is  so.  I have  been  for  some  time  aware 
that  she  had  a weak  heart.  Her  complexion,  her  feeble  circula- 
tion, several  indications  have  pointed  to  that  conclusion.  This 
morning  I have  made  a thorough  examination,  and  I find  mis- 
chief, decided  mischief.” 

“ That  means  she  may  die  at  any  moment,  suddenly,  without 
an  instant’s  warning. 

“There  would  always  be  thai;  fear.  Or  she  might  sink  grad- 
ually from  want  of  vital  power.  There  is  a sad  deficiency  of 
power.  I hardly  ever  knew  any  one  remain  so  long  in  so  low  a 
state.” 

“ You  have  been  attending  her,  off  and  on,  ever  since  our 
marriage.  You  must  have  seen  her  sinking.  Why  have  you 
not  warned  me  before?” 

“It  seemed  hardly  necessary.  You  must  have  perceived  the 
change  yourself.  You  must  have  noticed  her  want  of  appetite, 
her  distaste  for  exertion  of  any  kind,  her  increasing  feebleness.” 

“I  am  not  a doctor.” 

“ No;  but  these  are  things  that  speak  plainly  to  every  eye— to 
the  eye  of  affection  most  of  all.” 

“We  are  slow  to  perceive  the  alteration  in  any  one  we  see 
daily  and  hourly.  You  should  have  drawm  my  attention  to  ray 
wife’s  health.  It  is  unfair,  it  is  horrible  to  let  this  blow  come 
upon  me  unawares.” 

' If  the  captain  had  appeared  indifferent  hitherto,  there  w’as  no 
doubt  of  the  intensity  of  his  feeling  now.  He  had  started  up 
from  his  chair,  and  walked  backw^ard  and  forward,  strongly 
agitated. 

“ Shall  we  have  another  opinion  ?”  asked  Dr.  Martin. 

“ Certainly.  The  highest  in  the  land.” 

“ Dr.  Lorrimer,  of  Harley  Street,  is  the  most  famous  man  for 
heart  disease.” 

“rU  telegraph  to  him  immediately,”  said  the  captain. 

He  ordered  his  horse,  rode  into  Lyiidhurst,  and  dispatched  his 
telegram  without  the  loss  of  a minute.  N^ver  had  Dr,  Martin 


828  VIXEN. 

Been  any  one  more  in  earnest,  or  more  deeply  stricken  by  an  an- 
nouncement of  evil. 

“ Poor  fellow,  he  must  be  very  fond  of  her,”  mused  the  sur- 
geon, as  he  rode  off  to  his  next  call.  “And  yet  I should  have 
thought  she  must  be  rather  a tiresome  kind  of  woman  to  live 
with.  Her  income  dies  with  her,  I suppose.  That  makes  a dif- 
ference.” 

The  specialist  from  Harley  Street  arrived  at  the  Abbey  Houre 
on  the  following  afternoon.  He  made  bis  examination  and  gave 
his  opinion,  which  was  very  much  the  same  as  Dr.  Martin’s,  but 
clothed  in  more  scientific  language. 

“ This  poor  lady’s  heart  has  been  wearing  out  for  the  last 
twenty  years,”  he  told  the  local  surgeon;  “but  she  seems,  from 
your  account,  to  have  been  using  it  rather  worse  for  the  last  year 
or  so.  Do  you  know  if  she  has  had  any  particular  occasion  for 
worry  ?” 

“ Her  only  daughter  has  not  get  on  very  well  with  the  second 
husband,  I believe,”  said  Dr.  Martin.  “That  may  have  worried 
her.” 

“ Naturally.  Small  domestic  anxieties  of  that  kind  are  among 
the  most  potent  causes  of  heart  disease.”  And  then  Dr.  Lorri- 
mer  gave  his  instructions  about  treatment.  He  had  not  the 
faintest  hope  of  saving  tiie  patient,  but  be  gave  her  the  full  ben- 
efit of  his  science.  A man  could  scarcely  come  so  far  and  do 
less.  When  he  went  out  into  the  hall  and  met  the  captain,  who 
was  waiting  anxiously  for  his  verdict,  he  began  in  the  usual  orac- 
ular strain;  but  Captain  Carmichael  cut  him  shoi't  without  cer- 
emony. 

“ I don’t  want  to  hear  details,”  he  said.  “Martin  will  do 
everything  you  tell  him.  I want  the  best  or  the  worst  you  can 
tell  me  in  straightest  language.  Can  you  save  my  wife,  or  am  I 
to  lose  her?” 

“My  dear  sir,  while  there  is  life  there  is  hope,”  answered  the 
physician,  with  the  com  passionate  air  that  had  grown  habitual, 
like  his  black  frock-coat  and  general  sobriety  e^f  attire.  “ 1 have 
seen  wonderful  recoveries — or  rather  a wonderful  prolongation 
of  life,  for  cure  is,  of  course,  impossible — in  cases  as  bad  as  this. 
But ” 

“ Ah  I ’ cried  the  captain,  bitterly,  “ there  is  a but.” 

“ In  this  case  there  is  a sad  want  of  rallying  pow  er.  Frankly, 
I have  very  little  hope.  Do  all  you  can  to  cheer  and  comfort 
your  wife’s  mind,  and  to  make  her  last  days  happy.  j!M1  medi- 
cine apart,  that  is  about  the  best  advice  I can  give  you.” 

After  this  the  doctor  took  his  fee,  gav<3  the  captain’s  hand  a 
cordial  grip,  expressive  of  sympathy  and  kindliness,  and  went 
his  way,  feeling  assured  that  a good  deal  hung  upon  that  little 
life  vvdiich  he  had  left  slowly  ebbing  aw  ay,  like  a narrow  rivu- 
let dwindling  into  dryness  under  a July  sim. 

“What  does  the  London  doctor  say  of  me,  Conrad?”  asked 
Mrs.  Carmichael,  when  her  husband  went  to  her  presently, 
wdth  his  countenance  composed  and  cheerful.  “ He  tired  me 
dreadfully  wdtli  his  stethoscope.  Does  he  tliink  me  very  ill? 
Is  there  anything  wrong  with  my  lungs  ?” 


VIXEN. 


829 


“No,  love.  It  is  a case  of  weakness  and  languor.  You  must 
make  up  your  mind  to  get  strong;  and  you  will  do  more  for 
yourself  than  all  the  physicians  in  London  can  do.” 

“But  what  does  he  say  of  my  heart?  How  does  he  explain 
that  dreadful  fluttering — the  suffocating  sensation — the ?” 

“ He  explains  nothing.  It  is  a nervous  affection,  which  you 
must  combat  by  getting  strong.  “Dear  love!”  exclaimed  the 
captain,  with  a very  real  burst  of  feeling,  “ what  can  I do  to 
make  your  life  happy  ? what  can  I do  to  assure  you  of  my  love  ?*’ 

“Send  for  Violet,”  faltered  his  wife,  raising  herself  upon  her 
elbow,  and  looking  at  him  with  timorous  eagerness.  “ I have 
never  been  happy  since  she  left  us.  It  seems  as  if  I had  turned 
her  out  of  doors — out  of  her  o\vn  house — my  kind  husband’s 
only  daughter.  It  has  preyed  upon  my  mind  continually, 
that — and  other  things.  ” 

“ Dearest,  I will  telegraph  to  her  in  an  hour.  She  shall  be 
with  you  as  soon  as  the  steamer  can  bring  her.” 

“ A thousand  thanks,  Conrad.  You  are  always  good.  I know 
I have  been  weak  and  foolish  to  think ” 

Here  she  hesitated,  and  tears  began  to  roll  down  her  hollow 
cheeks. 

“ To  think  what,  love?”  asked  her  husband,  tenderly. 

If  love,  if  tenderness,  if  flattery,  if  all  sweetest  things  that 
ever  man  said  to  a woman  could  lure  this  feeble  spirit  back  to 
life,  she  should  be  so  won,  vowed  the  captain.  He  had  never 
been  unkind  to  her,  <:»r  thought  unkindly  of  her.  If  he  had  never 
loved  her,  he  had,  at  least,  been  tolerant.  But  now,  clinging  to 
her  as  the  representative  of  fortune,  happiness,  social  status, 
he  felt  that  she  was  assuredly  his  best  and  dearest  upon  earth. 

“ To  think  that  you  never  really  cared  for  me!”  she  whim- 
pered; “ that  you  married  me  for  the  sake  of  this  house  and  my 
income!” 

“ Pamela,  do  you  remember  what  Tom  Jones  said*  to  his  mis- 
tress when  she  pretended  to  doubt  liis  love?” 

“ My  dear  Conrad,  I never  read  Tom  Jones.  I have  heard  dear 
Edward  talk  of  it  as  if  it  was  something  too  dreadful.” 

“ Ah,  I forgot.  Of  course,  it  is  not  a lady’s  book.  Tom  told 
his  Sophia  to  look  in  the  glass,  if  she  Vvere  inclined  to  question 
his  love  for  her.  and  one  look  at  her  own  sweet  face  would  con- 
vince her  of  his  truth.  Let  it  be  so  with  yourself,  dear.  Asdi 
yourself  why  I should  not  love  the  sweetest  and  most  lovable  of 
women.” 

If  sugar-plums  of  speech,  if  lover-like  attentions  could  have 
cured  Pamela  Carmichael’s  mortal  sickness,  she  might  yet  have 
recovered.  But  the  hour  had  gone  by  when  such  medicaments 
might  have  prevailed.  While  the  captain  had  shot,  and  hunted, 
and  caught  mighty  salmon,  and  invested  his  odd  hundreds,  and 
taken  his  own  pleasure  in  various  ways,  with  almost  all  the  free^ 
dom  of  bachelor  life,  his  wife  had,  unawares,  been  slowly  drying. 
The  light  had  burned  low  in  the  socket:  and  wdio  shall  re-illu* 
mine  that  brief  candle  when  its  day  is  over?  It  needed  now  but 
a breath  to  quench  the  feeble  flame". 

“ Great  Heaven  1”  cried  Captain  Carmichael,  pacing  up  and 


830 


VIXEN. 


clown  his  study,  distraught  with  the  pangs  of  wounded  self- 
interest;  ‘‘I  have  been  taking  care  of  her  money  when  I ought 
to  have  taken  care  of  her.  It  is  her  life  that  all  hangs  upon:  and 
I have  let  that  slip  through  my  fingers  wliile  I have  planned  and 
contrived  to  save  a few  beggarly  hundreds.  Shoi*t  sighted  idiot 
that  I have  been!  Poor  Pamela!  And  she  has  been  so  yielding, 
80  compliant  to  my  every  wish!  A month — a week,  perhaps — 
and  she  will  be  gone;  and  that  handsome  spitfire  will  have  the 
right  to  thrust  me  from  this  house.  No,  my  lady,  I will  not 
afford  you  that  triumph.  My  wife’s  coffin  and  I will  go  ou^ 
together.” 


CHAPTER  XLH. 

*‘ALL  THE  RIVERS  RUN  INTO  THE  SEA.” 

For  some  days  Violet’s  return  seemed  to  have  a happy  effect 
upon  the  invalid.  Never  had  daughter  been  more  devoted,  more 
loving,  fuller  of  sweet  cares  and  consolations  for  a dying  mother, 
than  this  daughter.  Seeing  the  mother  and  child  together  in 
this  supreme  hour,  no  on-looker  could  have  diviued  that  these 
two  had  been  ever  less  fondly  united  than  mother  and  child 
should  be.  The  feeble  and  fading  woman  seemed  to  lean  on  the 
strong  bright  girl,  to  gain  a reflected  strength  from  her  fullness 
of  life  and  vigor.  It  was  as  if  Vixen,  with  her  si  lining  hair  and 
fair  young  face,  brought  healthful  breezes  into  the  sickly  per- 
fumed atmosphere  of  the  invalid’s  rooms. 

Roderick  Vav/drey  had  a hard  time  of  it  during  these  days  of 
sadness  and  suspense.  He  could  not  deny  the  right  of  his  be- 
trothed to  devote  all  her  lime  and  thought  to  a dying  mother; 
and  yet,  having  but  newly  won  her  for  his  very  own,  after 
dreary  years  of  constraint  and  severance,  he  longed  for  her  so- 
ciety as  loVer  never  longed  before;  of  at  least  he  thought  so. 
He  hung  about  the  Abbey  House  all  day,  heedless  of  the  gloomy 
looks  he  got  from  Captain  Carmichael,  and  of  the  heavy  air  of 
sadness  that  pervaded  the  house,  and  was  infinitely  content  and 
happy  when  he  was  admitted  to  Mrs.  Carmichael  s boudoir  to 
take  an  afternoon  cup  of  tea,  and  talk  for  half  an  liour  or  so,  in 
subdued  tones,  with  mother  and  daughter. 

“I  am  very  glad  that  things  have  happened  as  they  have 
Roderick,”  Mrs.  Carmichael  said,  languidly;  “ though  Pm  afraid 
it  would  make  your  mamma  very  unhappy  if  she  could  know 
about  it.  She  had  so  set  her  heart  on  your  marrying  Lady 
Mabel.” 

“ Forgetting  that  it  was  really  my  heart  which  was  concerned 
in  the  business,”  said  Rcrie.  “ Dear  Mabel  was  wise  enough  to 
show  us  all  the  easiest  way  out  of  our  difficulties.  I sent  her 
my  mother  s emerald  cross  and  ear-rings  the  day  before  yester- 
day, with  as  pretty  a letter  as  I could  write.  I tliink  it  was 
almost  poetical.” 

“ And  those  emeralds  of  Lady  Jane  Vawdrey’s  are  very  fine,” 
remarked  Mrs.  Carmichael.  ‘‘  I don’t  think  there  is  a feather  in 
one  of  the  stones.” 


VIXEN. 


831 


“It  was  almost  like  giving  away  your  property,  wasn’t  it, 
Vixen?”  said  Eorie,  looking  admiringly  at  his  beloved.  “But 
I have  a lot  of  my  mother’s  jewels  for  you,  and  I wanted  to  send 
Mabel  something,  to  show  her  that  I was  not  ungrateful.” 

“ You  acted  very  properly,  Eorie;  and  as  to  jewelry,  you  know 
very  well  I don’t  care  a straw  for  it.” 

“ It  is  a comfort  to  me  to  know  you  will  have  Lady  Jane’s 
pearl  necklace,”  murmured  Mrs.  Carmichael.  “ It  will  go  so 
well  with  my  diamond  locket.  Ah,  Eorie,  I wish  I had  been 
strong  enough  to  see  to  Violet’s  trousseau.  It  is  dreadful  to 
think  that  it  may  have  to  be  made  by  a provincial  dress- maker, 
and  with  no  one  to  supervise  and  direct.” 

“ Dearest  mother,  you  are  going  to  supervise  everything,”  ex- 
claimed Vixen.  “ I shall  not  think  of  being  married  till  you  are 
well  and  strong  again.” 

“ That  will  be  never,”  sighed  the  invalid. 

Upon  this  point  she  was  very  firm.  They  all  tried — husband, 
daughter,  and  friends — to  delude  her  with  false  hopes,  thinking 
thus  to  fan  the  flame  of  life  and  keep  the  brief  candle  burning  a 
little  longer.  She  was  not  deceived.  She  felt  herself  gradually, 
painlessly  sinking.  She  complained  but  little;  much  less  than 
in  the  days  when  her  ailments  had  been  in  some  part  fanciful; 
but  she  knew  very  surely  that  her  day  was  done. 

“ It  is  very  sweet  to  have  you  with  me,  Violet,”  she  said. 
“ Your  goodness,  and  Conrad’s  loving  attentions,  make  me  very 
happy,  I feel  almost  as  if  I should  like  to  live  a few  years 
longer.” 

“ Only  almost,  mother  darling  !”  exclaimed  Violet  reproach^ 
fully. 

“I  don’t  know,  dear.  I have  such  a weary  feeling;  as  if  life 
at  the  very  best  were  not  worth  the  trouble  it  cost  us.  1 
shouldn’t  mind  going  on  living  if  I could  always  lie  here,  and 
take  no  trouble  about  anything,  and  be  nursed  and  waited  upon, 
and  have  you  or  Conrad  alw^ays  by  my  side — but  to  get  well 
again,  and  to  have  to  get  up,  and  go  about  among  other  people, 
and  take  up  all  the  cares  of  life — no  dear,  I am  much  too  weary 
for  that.  And  then,  if  I could  get  well  to-morrow,  old  age  and 
death  would  still  be  staring  me  in  the  face.  I could  not  escape 
them.  No,  love,  it  is  much  better  to  die  now,  before  I am  very 
old,  or  quite  hideous — even  before  my  hair  is  gray.” 

She  took  up  one  of  the  soft  auburn  tresses  from  her  pillow,, 
and  looked  at  it  half  sadly. 

“Your  dear  papa  used  to  admire  my  hair,  Violet,”  she  said. 
“There  are  a few  gray  hairs,  but  you  would  hardly  notice  them  ; 
but  my  hair  is  much  thinner  than  it  used  to  be,  and  I don’t  think 
I could  have  made  up  my  mind  to  wear  false  hair.  It  never 
quite  matches  one's  own.  I have  seen  Lady  Ellangowan  wear- 
ing three  distinct  heads  of  hair ; and  yet  gentlemen  admire 
her.” 

*Mrs.  Carmichael  was  always  at  her  best  during  those  after- 
noon tea-drinkings.  The  strong  tea  revived  her;  Eoderick’s 
friendly  face  and  voice  cheered  her.  They  took  her  back  to  the 
remote  past,  to  the  kind  squire’s  day  of  glory,  which  she  xer 


833 


VIXEN. 


membered  as  the  happiest  time  of  her  life  ; even  now,  when  her 
second  husband  was  doing  all  things  possible  to  prove  his  sin- 
cerity and  devotion.  She  had  never  been  completely  happy  in 
this  second  marriage.  There  had  always  been  a flavor  of  re- 
morse mingled  with  her  cup  of  joy  ; the  vague  consciousness 
that  she  had  done  a foolish  thing,  and  that  the  world — her  little 
world  within  a radius  of  twenty  miles — was  eecretely  laughing 
at  her. 

“Do you  remember  the  day  we  came  home  from  our  honey- 
moon, Conrad  ?”  she  said  to  her  husband,  as  be  sat  by  her  in  the 
dusk  one  evening,  sad  and  silent,  “ when  tliere  was  no  carriage 
to  meet  us,  and  we  had  to  come  home  in  a fly  ? It  was  an  omen, 
was  it  not 

“ An  omen  of  what,  dearest 

“ That  ail  things  were  not  to  go  well  with  us  in  our  married 
life;  that  we  were  not  to  be  quite  happy.” 

‘ ‘ Have  you  not  been  happy,  Pamela  ? 1 have  tried  honestly  to 
do  my  duty  to  you.” 

“ I know  you  have,  Conrad.  You  have  been  all  goodness;  I 
always  have  said  so  to  Violet — and  to  every  one.  But  I have 
had  my  cares.  I felt  that  I was  too  old  for  you.  That  has 
preyed  upon  my  mind.” 

“Was  that  reasonable,  Pamela,  when  I have  never  felt  it  ?” 

“ Perhaps  not  at  first;  and  even  if  you  had  felt  the  disparity 
in  our  ages  you  would  have  been  too  generous  to  let  me  per- 
ceive the  change  in  your  feelings.  But  I should  have  grown  an 
old  woman  while  you  were  still  a young  man.  It  vroiild  have 
been  too  dreadful.  Indeed,  dear,  it  is  better  as  it  is.  Provi- 
dence is  very  good  to  me.” 

“ Providence  is  not  very  good  to  me,  in  taking  you  from  me,” 
said  the  captain,  with  a touch  of  bitterness. 

It  seemed  to  him  passing  selfish  in  his  wife  to  bo  so  resigned 
to  leaving  life,  and  so  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  her  income  died 
with  her,  and  that  he  was  to  be  left  out  in  the  cold.  One  even- 
ing, however,  when  they  were  sitting  alone  together,  this  fact 
presented  itself  suddenly  to  Jier  mind. 

“ You  will  lose  the  Abbey  House  when  I am  gone,  Conrad.” 

“ My  love,  do  you  think  I could  live  in  this  house  without 
you  ? ” 

“And  my  income,  Conrad;  that  dies  with  me,  does  it  not?” 

“Yes,  love.” 

“ That  is  hard  for  you.” 

“ I can  bear  that,  Pamela,  if  I am  to  bear  the  loss  of  you.” 

“ Dearest  love,  you  have  always  been  disinterested.  How 
could  I ever  doubt  you  ? Perhaps — indeed  I am  sure — if  I were 
to  ask  Violet,  she  would  give  you  the  fifteen  hundred  a year 
that  I was  to  have  had  after  she  came  of  age.” 

“Pamela,  I could  not  accept  any  favor  from  your  daughter. 
You  would  deeply  offend  me  if  you  were  to  suggest  sucii  a 
thing.” 

This  was  true.  Much  as  he  valued  money,  he  would  have 
rather  starved  than  taken  sixpence  from  the  girl  who  had 


VIXEN. 


333 


Bcorned  him ; the  girl  whose  very  presence  gave  rise  to  a terrible 
conllict  in  his  breast — passionate  love,  bitterest  antagonism. 

“There  are  the  few  things  that  I possess  myself — jewels, 
books,  furniture — special  gifts  of  dear  Edward’s.  Those  are  my 
own,  to  dispose  of  as  I like.  I miglit  make  a will  leaving  them 
to  you,  Conrad.  They  are  trifles,  but ” 

“ They  will  be  precious  souvenirs^  of  our  wedded  life,”  mur° 
mured  the  captain,  who  was  very  much  of  Mr.  Yv^emmick’s 
opinion,  that  portable  property  of  any  kind  was  v\  orth  having. 

A will  was  drawn  up  and  executed  next  day,  in  which  Mrs. 
Carmichael  left  her  diamonds  to  her  daughter,  her  wardrobe  to 
the  faithful  and  long-suffering  Pauline — otherwise  Mary  Smith 
— and  all  the  rest  of  her  belongings  to  her  dearly-beloved  hus- 
band, Conrad  Carmichael.  The  captcan  was  a sufficient  man  of 
business  to  take  care  that  this  will  was  properly  executed. 

In  all  this  time  his  daily  intercourse  with  Yiolet  was  a source 
of  exceeding  bitterness.  She  was  civil,  and  even  friendly  in  her 
manner  to  him — for  her  mother's  sake.  And  then,  in  the  com- 
pleteness of  her  union  with  Eorie,  she  could  be  generous  and 
forgiving.  The  old  spirit  of  antagonism  died  out;  her  foe  was  so 
utterly  fallen.  A few  weeks  and  the  old  home  would  be  her 
own — the  old  servants  would  come  back,  the  old  pensioners 
might  gather  regain  around  the  kitcl.en  door.  All  could  be  once 
more  as  it  had  been  in  her  father’s  lifetime;  and  no  trace  of 
Conrad  Carmicbaebs  existence  would  be  left;  for,  alas!  it  was 
now  an  acknowledg(‘d  fact  that  Violet’s  mother  was  dying.  The 
most  sanguine  among  her  friends  had  ceased  to  hope.  She  her- 
self was  utterly  resigned.  She  spent  some  part  of  each  day  in 
gentle  religious  exercises  with  kindly  Mr.  Scobel.  Her  last 
hours  were  as  calm  and  reasonable  as  those  of  Socrates. 

So  Captain  Carmichael  had  to  sit  quietly  by,  and  see  Yiolet 
and  her  lover  grouped  by  his  fading  wife’s  sofa,  and  school  him- 
self, as  he  best  might,  to  endure  the  spectacle  of  their  perfect 
happiness  in  each  other’s  love,  and  to  know  that  he — wlio  had 
planned  his  future  days  so  wisely,  and  provided,  like  the  indus- 
trious ant,  for  the  winter  of  his  life — had  broken  down  in  his 
scheme  of  existence,  after  all,  and  had  no  more  part  in  this 
house  which  he  had  deemed  his  own  than  a traveler  at  an  inn. 

It  was  hard,  and  he  sat  beside  his  dying  wife,  with  anger  and 
envy  gnawing  his  heart — anger  against  fate,  envy  of  Roderick 
Yawdrey,  who  had  won  the  prize.  If  evil  wislies  could  have 
killed,  neither  Yiolet  nor  her  lover  would  have  outlived  that 
summer.  Happily  the  captain  was  too  cautious  a man  to  be 
guilty  of  any  overt  act  of  rage  or  hatred.  His  rancorous  feelings 
v^ere  decently  hidden  under  a gentlemanly  iciness  of  manner, 
to  which  no  one  could  take  objection. 

The  fatal  Imur  came  unawares,  one  calm  September  afternoon, 
about  six  weeks  after  Violet’s  return  from  Jersey.  Captain  Car- 
michael had  been  reading  one  of  Tennyson's  idyls  to  his  wife, 
till  she  sank  into  a gentle  slumber.  He  left  her  with  Pauline 
seated  at  work  by  one  of  the  windows,  and  went  to  his  study  to 
write  some  letters.  Five  o’clock  was  the  established  hour  for 
kettledrum,  but  of  late  the  invalid  had  been  unable  to  bear 


834 


VIXEN. 


eveD  the  mud  excitement  of  two  or  three  visitors  at  this  time, 
Violet  now  attended  alone  to  her  mother’s  afternoon  tea,  kneel- 
ing by  lier  side  as  she  sipped  the  refreshing  infusion,  and  coax- 
ing her  to  eat  a wafer-like  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  or  a few 
morsels  of  sponge-cake. 

This  afternoon,  when  Violet  went  softly  into  the  room,  carry- 
ing the  little  Japanese  tray  and  tiny  teapot,  she  found  her 
mother  lying  just  as  the  captain  had  left  her  an  hour  before. 

“ She’s  been  sleeping  so  sweetly,  miss,”  whispered  Pauline. 

I never  knew  her  sleep  so  quiet  since  she’s  been  ill.” 

Tiiat  stillness  which  seemed  so  good  a thing  to  the  handmaid 
frightened  the  daughter.  Violet  set  her  tray  down  hastily  on  the 
nearest  table,  and  ran  to  her  mother’s  sofa.  She  looked  at  the 
pale  and  sunken  cheek,  just  visible  in  the  downy  hollow  of  the 
pillows  ; she  touched  the  hand  lying  on  the  silken  coverlet. 
That  marble  coldness,  that  waxen  hue  of  the  cheek,  told  her  the 
awful  truth.  She  fell  on  her  knees  beside  the  sofa,  with  a cry 
of  sharp  and  sudden  sorrow. 

“ Oh,  mother,  mocher  I I ought  to  have  loved  you  better  all 
my  life  1” 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

THE  BLUE-BEAED  CHAMBER. 

The  day  before  the  funeral  Captain  Carmichael  received  a 
letter  from  his  step-daughter,  offering  to  execute  any  deed  he 
might  choose  to  have  prepared,  settling  upon  him  the  income 
which  his  wife  was  to  have  had  after  Violet’s  majority. 

“ I know  that  you  are  a heavy  loser  by  my  mother’s  death,’’ 
she  wrote,  “ and  I shall  be  glad  to  do  anything  in  my  power  to 
lessen  that  loss.  I know  well  that  it  was  her  earnest  wish  that 
your  future  should  be  provided  for.  I told  her  a few  days  be- 
fore she  died  that  I should  make  you  this  offer.  I do  it  with  all 
my  heart ; and  I shall  consider  myself  obliged  by  your  acceptance 
of  it.” 

The  captain’s  reply  was  brief  and  firm. 

“ I thank  you  for  your  generous  offer,”  he  said,  “ which  I feel 
assured  is  made  in  good  faith  ; but  I think  you  ought  to  know 
that  there  are  reasons  why  it  is  impossible  I should  accept  any 
benefit  from  your  hand.  I shall  not  re-enter  the  Abbey  House 
after  my  wife’s  funeral.  You  will  be  sole  and  sovereign  mis- 
tress of  all  things  from  that  hour.” 

He  kept  his  word.  He  was  chief  mourner  at  the  quiet  but 
stately  burial  under  the  old  yew-tree  in  Beechdale  church-yard. 
When  all  was  over,  he  got  into  a fly  and  drove  to  the  station  at 
Lyndhurst  Road,  whence  he  departed  by  the  first  train  for  Lon- 
don. He  told  no  one  anything  about  his  plans  for  the  future; 
he  left  no  address  but  his  club.  He  was  next  heard  of  six  months 
later,  in  South  America. 

Violet  had  telegraphed  to  her  old  governess  directly  after  Mrs, 


VTKEN. 


835 


Carmichael’s  death;  and  that  good  and  homely  x>crson  arrived 
on  the  day* after  the  funeral,  to  take  up  her  abode  with  her  old 
pupil,  as  companion  and  chaperon  until  Miss  Tempest  should 
have  become  Mrs.Vawdrey,  and  would  have  but  one  companion 
henceforward  in  all  the  journey  of  life.  Eorie  and  Vixen  were 
to  be  married  in  six  months.  Mrs.  Carmichael  had  made  them 
promise  that  her  death  should  delay  their  marriage  as  little  as 
possible. 

“ You  can  have  a very  quiet  wedding,  you  know,  dear,”  she 
said.  “You  can  be  married  in  your  traveling  dress — something 
pretty  in  gray  silk  and  terry  velvet,  or  with  chinchilla  trimming, 
if  it  should  be  winter.  Chinchilla  is  so  distinguished-looking. 
You  will  go  abroad,  I suppose,  for  your  honeymoon — Pau,  or 
Monaco,  or  any  of  those  places  on  the  Mediterranean.” 

It  had  pleased  her  to  settle  everything  for  the  lovers.  Violet 
remembered  all  these  speeches  with  a tender  sorrow.  There 
was  comfort  in  the  •‘'hought  that  her  mother  had  loved  her,  ac- 
cording to  her  lights. 

It  had  been  finally  settled  between  the  lovers  that  they  were 
to  live  at  the  Abbey  House.  Briar  wood  was  to  be  let  to  any 
wealthy  individual  who  might  desire  a handsome  house,  sur- 
rounded by  exquisitely  arranged  gardens,  and  burdened  wuth 
glass  that  would  cost  a small  fortune  annually  to  maintain.  Be- 
fore Mr.  Vawdrey  could  put  his  property  into  the  hands  of  the 
auctioneers,  he  received  a private  offer,  which  was  in  every  re- 
spect satisfactory. 

Lady  Mallow  wished  to  spend  some  part  of  every  year  near 
her  father  and  mother,  who  lived  a good  deal  at  Ashbourne,  the 
duke  becoming  yearly  more  devoted  to  his  Chillingham  oxen 
and  monster  turnips.  Lord  Mallow,  who  [loved  his  native  isle 
to  distraction,  but  always  found  six  weeks  in  a year  a sufficient 
period  of  residence  there,  was  delighted  to  please  his  bride,  and 
agreed  to  take  Briarwood,  furnished,  on  a seven-years’  lease. 
The  orchid-houses  were  an  irresistible  attraction,  and  by  this 
friendly  arrangement  Lady  Mallow  would  profit  by  the  altera- 
tions and  improvements  her  cousin  had  made  for  her  gratifica- 
ticn,  when  he  believed  she  was  to  be  his  wife. 

Briarwood  thus  disposed  of,  Eorie  \vas  free  to  consider  the 
Abbey  House  his  future  home;  and  Violet  had  the  happiness  of 
knowing  that  the  good  old  house  in  which  her  childhood  had 
been  spent  would  be  her  habitation  always,  till  she  too  was 
carried  to  the  family  vault  under  the  old  yew-tree.  There  are 
people  who  languish  for  change,  for  whom  the  newest  is  ever 
the  best;  but  it  was  not  thus  with  Violet  Tempest.  The  people 
she  had  known  all  her  life,|the  scenes  amidst  which  she  had  played 
when  a child,  were  to  her  the  dearest  people  and  the  loveliest 
scenes  upon  earth.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  her  to  travel  with 
her  husband,  and  see  fair  lands  across  the  sea;  but  pleasanter 
still  would  be  the  home-coming  to  the  familiar  hearth  beside 
which  her  father  had  sat,  the  old  faces  that  had  looked  upon 
him,  the  hands  that  had  served  him,  the  gardens  he  had  planted 
and  improved. 

I should  like  to  show  you  Briarwood  before  it  is  let,  Vixen,” 


838 


VIXEN. 


Mr.  Vawdrey  said  to  his  sweetheart,  one  November  morninp:. 
“ You  may  at  least  pay  my  poor  patrimony  the  compliment  of 
looking  at  it  before  it  becomes  the  property  of  Lord  and  Lady- 
Mallow.  Suppose  you  and  Miss  M’Croke  drive  over  and  drink 
tea  with  me  this  afternoon?  1 believe  my  housekeeper  brews 
pretty  good  tea.” 

“ Very  well,  Eorie,  we  ll  come  to  tea.  I should  rather  like  to 
see  the  improvement  you  made  for  Lady  Mabel,  before  your  mis- 
fortune. I think  Lord  Mallow  must  consider  it  very  good  of 
you  to  let  him  have  the  beneht  of  all  the  money  you  spent,  in- 
stead of  bringing  an  action  for  breach  of  promise  against 
his  wife,  as  you  might  very  well  have  done.” 

“ I dare  say.  But  you  see  I am  of  a forgiving  temper.  Well, 
I shall  tell  my  housekeeper  to  have  tea  and  buns,  and  jam,  and 
all  the  things  children — and  young  ladies — like,  at  four  o’clock. 
Vv^e  had  better  make  it  four  instead  of  five,  as  the  afternoons 
are  so  short.” 

“ If  you  are  impertinent  we  wmn't  come.” 

“ Oh,  yes  you  will.  Curiosity  will  bring  you.  Eemember 
this  will  be  your  last  chance  of  seeing  the  Bluebeard  chamber  at 
Briarwood.” 

“ Is  there  a Bluebeard  chamber?” 

“ Of  course.  Did  you  ever  know  of  a family  mansion  with- 
out one?” 

Vixen  was  delighted  at  the  idea  of  exploring  her  lover’s 
domain,  now  that  he  and  it  were  her  own  property.  How  well 
she  remembered  going  with  her  father  to  the  meet  on  Briarwood 
lawn.  Yet  it  seemed  a century  ago — the  very  beginning  of  her 
life — before  she  had  known  sorrow. 

Miss  M’Croke,  who  was  ready  to  do  anything  her  pupil  de- 
sii^ed,  was  really  pleased  at  the  idea  of  seeing  the  interior  of 
Briarwood. 

“ I have  never  been  inside  the  doors,  you  know,  dear,”  she 
said,  “ often  as  I have  driven  past  the  gates  with  your  dear 
mamma.  Lady  Jane  Vawdrey  was  not  the  kind  of  person  to 
invite  a governess  to  go  and  see  her.  She  was  a strict  observer 
of  the  laws  of  caste.  The  duchess  has  much  less  pride.” 

I don’t  think  Lady  Jane  ever  quite  forgave  herself  for  marry- 
ing a commoner,”  said  Vixen.  ‘’She  revenged  her  own  weak- 
ness upon  other  people.” 

Violet  had  a new  pair  of  ponies,  which  her  lover  had  chosen 
for  her,  after  vain  endeavors  to  trace  and  recover  th6  long  lost 
Titmouse.  These  she  drove  to  Briarwood,  Miss  M’Croke  resign- 
ing herself  to  the  will  of  Providence  with  a blind  submission 
worthy  of  a Moslem;  feeling  that  if  it  were  written  that  she  w as 
to  be  flung  head  foremost  out  of  a pony-carriage,  the  thing 
would  happen  sooner  or  later.  Staying  at  home  to-day  would 
not  ward  off  to-morrow’s  doom.  So  she  took  her  place  in  the 
cushioned  valley  by  Violet’s  side,  and  sat  calm  and  still,  while 
the  ponies,  w arranted  quiet  to  drive  in  single  or  double  harness, 
stood  up  on  end  and  made  as  if  they  had  a fixed  intention  of 
scaling  the  rhododendron  bank. 

“They’ll  settle  down  directly  I’ve  taken  the  freshness  out 


VIXEN.  m 

of  them,”  said  Vixen,  blandly,  as  she  administered  a reproach- 
ful touch  of  the  whip. 

“I  hope  they  will,”  replied  Miss  M’CroIce;  “but  don't  you 
think  Bates  oughi  to  havo  seen  the  freshness  taken  out  of  them 
before  we  started  ? 

They  were  soon  tearing  along  the  smooth  Eoman  road  at  a 
splendid  pace,  “the  ponies  going  like  clock-work,”  as  Vixen  re- 
marked approvingly;  but  poor  Miss  M’Croke  thought  that  any 
clock  which  went  as  fast  as  those  ponies  would  be  deemed  the 
maddest  of  time-keepers. 

They  found  Roderick  standing  at  his  gates,  waiting  for  them. 
There  was  a gjorious  fire  in  the  amber  and  white  drawing  room, 
a dainty  tea-table  drawn  in  front  of  the  hearth,  the  easiest  of 
chairs  arranged  on  each  side  of  the  table,  an  urn  hissing,  Korie’s 
favorite  pointer  stretched  upon  the  hearth,  everything  cozy  and 
home-like.  Briar  wood  was  not  such  a bad  place  after  all. 
Vixen  thought.  She  could  have  contrived  to  be  happy  with 
Roderick  even  here;  but  of  course  the  Abbey  House  was,  in  her 
mind,  a hundred  times  better,  being  just  the  one  perfect  home 
in  the  world. 

They  all  three  sat  round  the  fire,  drinking  tea,  poured  out  by 
Vixen,  who  played  the  mistress  of  the  house  sweetly.  They 
talked  of  old  times,  sometimes  sadly,  sometimes  sportively, 
glancing  swiftly  from  one  old  memory  to  another.  All  Rorie’s 
tiresome  ways,  all  Vixen’s  mischievous  tricks,  were  remem- 
bered. 

“I  think  T led  you  a life  in  those  days,  didn’t  T,  Rorie?”  asked 
Vixen,  leaving  the  tea-tray,  and  stealing  softly  behind  her 
lover’s  chair  to  lean  over  his  shoulder  caressingly,  and  pull  his 
thick  brown  beard.  “ There  is  nothing  so  delightful  as  to  tor- 
ment the  person  one  loves  best  in  the  world.  Oh,  Rorie,  I mean 
to  lead  you  a life  by  and  by!” 

“Dearest,  the  life  you  lead  me  must  needs  be  sweet,  for  it  will 
be  spent  with  you.” 

After  tea  they  set  out  upon  a round  of  inspection,  and  ad- 
mired the  new  morning  room  that  had  been  devised  for  Lady 
Mabel,  in  the  very  latest  style  of  Dutch  Renaissance — walls  the 
color  of  muddy  water,  glorified  ginger-jars,  ebonized  ch?  irs  and 
tables,  and  willow-pattern  plates  all  round  the  cornice;  curtains 
mud -color,  with  a mediaeval  design  in  dirty  yellow,  or,  in  up- 
holster’s  language,  “old  gold.” 

“ I should  like  to  show  you  the  stables  before  it  is  quite  dark,” 
said  Rorie,  presently.  “ I made  a few  slight  improvements 
there  while  the  builders  were  about.” 

“ You  know  I have  a weakness  for  stables,”  answered  Vixen. 
“ How  many  a lecture  I used  to  get  from  poor  mamma  about  my 
unfortunate  tastes!  But  can  there  be  anything  in  the  world 
nicer  than  a good  old-fashioned  stable,  smelling  of  clover  and 
newly-cut  hay  ?” 

“ Stables  are  very  nice  indeed,  and  very  useful  in  their  proper 
place,  ” remarked  Miss  M’Croke,  sententiously. 

“But  one  ought  not  to  bring  the  stables  into  the  drawing- 


338 


VIXEN. 


room,”  said  Vixen,  gravely.  “ Come,  Eerie,  let  us  see  your  lat- 
est improvements  in  stable-gear.*’ 

They  all  went  out  to  the  stone-paved  quadrangle,  which  was 
as  neatly  kept  as  a West- End  livery-yard.  Miss  M'Croke  had  an 
ever  present  dread  of  the  ubiquitous  hind  legs  of  strange  horses; 
but  she  followed  her  charge  into  the  stable  with  the  same  heroic 
fidelity  with  which  she  would  have  followed  her  to  the  scaffold 
or  the  stake. 

There  were  all  Eorie’s  old  favorites — Starlight  Bess,  with  her 
shining  brown  coat,  and  one  white  stocking;  Blue  Peter,  broad- 
chested,  well-ribbed,  and  strong  of  limb;  Pixie,  the  gray  A.rab 
mare,  which  Lady  Jane  used  to  drive  in  a park-phaeton — quite 
an  ancient  lady;  Donald,  the  iron-sinewed  hunter. 

Vixen  knew'  them  all,  and  w'ent  up  to  theih  and  patted  their 
graceful  heads,  and  made  herself  at  home  with  them. 

“You  are  all  coming  to  the  Abbey  House  to  live,  you  dear 
things,”  she  said,  delightedly. 

There  was  a loose  box,  shut  off  by  a five-foot  wainscot  par- 
tition, surmounted  by  a waved  iron  rail,  at  one  end  of  the 
stable,  and  on  approaching  this  inclosure  Vixen  was  saluted 
with  sundry  grunts  and  snorting  noises,  which  seemed  curiously 
familiar. 

At  the  sound  of  these  she  stopped  short,  turning  red,  and  then 
pale,  and  looked  intently  at  Eorie,  w^ho  was  standing  close  by, 
smiling  at  her. 

“That  is  my  Bluebeard  chamber,”  he  said,  gay ly.  “There’s 
something  too  awful  inside.” 

“ What  horse  have  got  there  ?”  cried  Vixen,  eagerly. 

“A  horse  that  I thmk  will  carry  you  nicely,  when  we  hunt 
together.” 

“ What  horse  ? Have  I ever  seen  him  ? Do  I know  him  ?” 

The  grunts  and  snortings  w'ere  continued  with  a crescendo 
movement;  an  eager  nose  was  rattling  the  latch  of  the  door  that 
shut  off  the  loose-box. 

“ If  you  have  a good  memory  for  old  friends,  I think  you  will 
know  this  one,”  said  Eorie,  w'ithdrawing  a bolt. 

A head  pushed  open  the  door,  and  in  another  moment  Vixen’s 
arms  w^ere  round  her  old  favorite’s  sleek  neck,  and  the  velvet 
nostrils  were  sniffing  her  hair  and  cheek  in  most  loving  recog- 
nition. 

“You  dear,  dear  old  fellow!”  cried  Vixen;  and  then  turning 
to  Eorie:  “You  told  me  he  w'as  sold  at  Tattersall’s!*’  she  ex- 
claimed. 

“ So  he  was,  and  I bought  him !” 

“Why  did  you  not  tell  me  that?” 

“ Because  you  did  not  ask  me.” 

“ I thought  you  so  unkind,  so  indifferent  about  him.” 

“ You  were  unkind  when  you  could  think  it  possible  I should 
let  your  favorite  horse  fall  into  strange  hands.  But  perhaps  you 
would  rather  Lord  Mallow  had  bought  him  ?” 

“ To  think  that  you  should  have  kept  the  secret  all  this  time!” 
said  Vixen. 

“ You  see  I am  not  a woman,  and  can  keep  a secret.  I w^anted 


VIXEN.  839 

to  have  one  little  surprise  for  you,  as  a reward  when  you  had 
been  especially  good.” 

“You  are  good,”  she  said,  standing  on  tiptoe  to  kiss  him. 
“ And  though  I have  loved  you  all  my  life,  I don’t  think  I have 
loved  you  the  least  little  bit  too  much.” 

EPILOGUE. 

Vixen  and  Eorie  were  married  in  the  spring,  when  the  forest 
glades  were  yellow  with  primroses,  the  mossy  banks  blue  with 
violets,  and  the  cuckoo  was  heard  with  monotonous  iteration 
from  sunrise  to  sundown.  They  were  married  in  the  little  village 
church  at  Beechdale,  and  Mrs.  Scobel  declared  that  Miss  Tem- 
pest’s wedding  was  the  prettiest  that  ever  had  been  solemnized 
in  that  small  Gothic  temple.  Never,  perhaps,  even  at  Easter- 
tide, had  been  seen  such  a wealth  of  spring  blossoms,  the  wild- 
lings  of  the  woods  and  hills.  The  duchess  had  offered  the  con- 
tents of  her  hot-houses,  Lady  EUangowan  had  offered  wagon- 
loads of  azaleas  and  camelias,  but  Vixen  had  refused  them  all. 
She  would  allow  no  decorations  but  the  wild  flowers  which  the 
school-children  could  gather.  Primroses,  violets,  bluebells,  the 
firstlings  of  the  fern  tribe,  cowslips,  and  all  the  tribe  of  innocent 
forest  blossoms,  with  their  quaint  rustic  names,  rnost  of  them  as 
old  as  Shakespeare. 

It  was  a very  quiet  wedding.  Vixen  would  have  no  one  pres- 
ent except  the  Scobels,  Miss  M’Croke,  her  two  bride-maids, 
and  Sir  Henry  Tolmash,  an  old  friend  of  her  father,  who  was  to 
give  her  away.  He  was  a white-haired  old  man,  who  had 
given  his  latter  days  up  to  farming,  and  had  not  a thought 
above  turnips  and  top-dressing;  but  Violet  honored  him,  because 
he  had  been  her  father’s  oldest  friend.  For  bride- maids  she  had 
Colonel  Carteret’s  daughters,  a brace  of  harmless  young  ladies, 
whose  conversation  was  as  stereotyped  as  a French  and  English 
vocabulary,  but  who  dressed  well  and  looked  pretty. 

There  was  no  display  of  wedding-gifts,  no  ceremonious  wed- 
ding-breakfast. Vixen  remembered  the  wedding-feast  at  her 
mother’s  second  marriage,  and  what  a dreary  ceremonial  it  had 
been.  The  bride  wore  her  gray  silk  traveling-dress,  with  gray 
hat  and  feather,  and  she  and  her  husband  went  straight  from 
the  church  to  the  railway  station,  on  their  way  to  untrodden 
paths  in  the  Engadine,  whence  they  were  to  return  at  no  ap- 
pointed time. 

“ We  are  coming  back  when  we  are  tired  of  mountain  scenery 
and  of  each  other,”  Violet  told  IMrs.  Scobel  in  the  church  porch. 

“ That  will  be  never!”  exclaimed  Eorie,  looking  ineffably 
happy,  but  not  very  much  like  a bridegroom,  in  his  comfortable 
gray  suit.  “You  might  just  as  well  say  that  we  are  going  to 
live  among  the  mountains  as  long  as  Eip  Van  Winkle.  No, 
Mrs.  Scobel,  we  are  not  going  to  remain  away  from  you  fifty 
years.  We  are  coming  back  in  time  for  the  hunting.” 

Then  came  kissing  and  hand- shaking,  a shower  of  violets  and 
primroses  upon  the  narrow  churchyard  path,  a hearty  huzza 
from  the  assembled  village,  all  clustered  about  the  oaken  gate- 


84C 


VIXEN. 


posts.  The  envious  carriage-door  shut  in  bride  and  bridegroom^ 
the  coachman  touched  his  horses,  and  they  were  gone  up  tiie 
hill,  out  of  the  peaceful  valley,  to  Lyndhurst  and  the  railway.^ 

“ How  dreadfully  I shall  miss  them!”  said  Mrs.  Scobel,  who 
had  spent  much  of  her  leisure  with  the  lovers.  “ They  are  both 
BO  full  of  life  and  brightness!” 

“They  are  young  and  happy!”  sail  her  husband,  quietly. 
“ Who  would  not  miss  youth  and  happiness  ?” 

W^'hen  the  first  frosts  had  seared  the  beeches  to  a fiery  red,  and 
the  berries  were  bright  on  the  hawthorns,  and  the  latest  bloom 
of  the  heather  had  faded  on  hill  and  plain,  and  the  happy  pigs 
had  devoured  ail  the  beech -nuts,  Mr.  Vawdrey  and  his  wife 
came  back  from  their  exploration  of  Alpine  snows  and  peaceful 
Swiss  villages,  to  the  good  old  Abbey  House.  Their  six  months’ 
honey -moon  had  been  all  gladness.  They  were  the  veriest  boy  and 
girl  husband  and  wife  who  had  ever  trodden  those  beaten  tracks. 
They  teased  each  other,  and  quarreled,  and  made  friends  again 
like  children,  and  were  altogether  happy.  And  now  they  came 
back  to  the  Forest,  bronzed  by  many  a long  day's  sunshine,  and 
glowing  with  health  and  high  spirits.  The  glass  of  Time  seemed 
to  be  turned  backward  at  the  Abbey  House;  for  all  the  old  serv- 
ants came  back,  and  white-haired  old  Bates  ruled  in  the  well- 
filled  stables,  and  all  things  were  as  in  the  dead  and  gone  squire’s 
time. 

Among  Eoderick’s  wedding-gifts  was  one  from  Lord  Mallow — 
Bullfinch,  the  best  horse  in  that  nobleman’s  stable. 

“ I know  your  wife  would  like  you  to  have  her  father’s  favor- 
ite hunter,”  wrote  Lord  Mallow.  “ Tell  her  that  he  has  never 
been  sick  or  sorry  since  he  has  been  in  my  stable,  and  that  I have 
always  taken  particular  care  of  him,  for  her  sake.” 

Among  Violet’s  presents  was  a diamond  bracelet  from  Lady 
Mallow,  accompanied  by  a very  cordial  letter;  and  almost  the 
first  visit  that  the  Vawdreys  received  after  they  came  home  was 
from  Lord  and  Lady  Mallow.  The  first  great  dinner  to  which 
they  were  bidden  was  at  Briarwood,  where  it  seemed  a curious 
thing  for  Rorie  to  go  as  a guest.  ' 

Matrimony  with  the  man  of  her  choice  had  wondrously  im- 
proved IMabel  Ashbourne.  She  was  less  self-sufficient  and  more 
conciliating.  Her  ambition,  hitherto  confined  to  the  desire  to 
excel  all  other  women  in  her  own  person,  had  assumed  a less  self- 
ish form.  She  was  now  only  ambitious  for  her  husband;  greedy 
of  parliamentary  fame  for  him;  full  of  large  hopes  about  the 
future  of  Ireland.  She  looked  forward  complacently  to  the  day 
when  she  and  Lcr  l Mallow  would  be  reigning  at  Dublin  Castle, 
arid  when  Hibernian  arts  and  industries  would  revive  and  flour- 
ish under  her  fostering  care.  Pending  that  happy  state  of  tilings 
she  wore  Iri^i  poplin  and  Irish  lace,  Irish  stockings,  and  Irish 
linen.  She  attended  Her  Majesty’s  Drawing-room  on  St.  Pat- 
rick’s Day,  ^vuth  a sprig  of  real  shamrock — sent  her  by  one  of  her 
husband’s  tenantry — among  the  diamonds  that  sparkled  on  her 
bosom.  She  was  more  intensely  Irish  than  the  children  of  the 


VIXEN. 


841 


soil;  just  as  converts  to  Romanism  are  ever  more  severely 
/\;oman  than  those  born  and  nurtured  in  the  faith. 

Her  husband  was  intensely  proud  of  his  wife,  and  of  his  anl- 
ance  with  the  House  of  Ashbourne.  The  duke,  at  first  inclined 
to  resent  the  scandal  of  an  elopement  and  the  slight  offered  to 
his  favorite,  Rorie,  speedily  reconciled  himself  to  a marriage 
which  was  more  materially  advantageous  than  the  cousinly  alli- 
ance. 

“ I should  like  Rorie  to  have  had  Ashbourne,”  he  said,  mourn* 
fully.  “ I think  he  would  have  kept  up  my  breed  of  Chillingham 
cattle.  Mallow’s  a good  fellow,  but  he  knows  nothing  about 
farming.  He’ll  never  spend  enough  money  on  manure  to  main- 
tain the  soil  at  its  present  producing  power.  The  grasp  of  Mg 
mind  isn’t  large  enough  to  allow  him  to  sink  his  money  in  ma- 
nuring bis  land.  He  would  be  wanting  to  see  an  immediate  re- 
sult.” 

As  time  went  on,  the  duke  became  more  and  more  devoted  to 
his  farm.  His  Scottish  castle  delighted  him  not,  nor  the  grand 
old  place  in  the  Midlands.  Ashbourne,  which  was  the  pleasure- 
dome  he  had  built  for  himself,  contained  all  he  cared  about. 
Too  heavy  and  too  lazy  to  hunt,  he  was  able  to  jog  about  his 
farm,  and  supervise  the  work  that  was  going  on,  to  th.e  smallest 
detail.  There  was  not  a foot  of  drain  pipe  or  a bit  of  thatch 
renewed  on  the  whole  estate  without  the  duke  having  a finger 
in  the  pie.  He  bred  fat  oxen  and  prize  cart-horses,  and  made  a 
great  figure  at  all  the  cattle-shows,  and  was  happy.  The  duchess, 
who  had  never  believed  her  paragon  capable  of  wrong-doing, 
had  been  infinitely  shocked  by  Lady  Mabel’s  desperate  course; 
but  it  was  not  in  her  nature  to  be'  angry  with  that  idolized 
daughter.  She  very  soon  came  back  to  her  original  idea,  that 
whatever  Mabel  Ashbourne  did  was  right.  And  then  the  mar- 
riage was  so  thoroughly  happy,  and  the  world  gladly  forgives  a 
scandal  that  ends  so  pleasantly. 

So  Lord  and  Lady  Mallow  go  their  way — honored,  beloved, 
very  active  in  good  works — and  the  pleasant  valleys  around 
Mallow  are  dotted  with  red  brick  school-houses,  and  the  old 
stone  hovels  are  giving  place  to  model  cottages,  and  native  in- 
dustries receive  all  possible  encouragement  from  the  owner  of 
the  soil;  and,  afar  off,  in  the  coming  years,  the  glories  of  Dublin 
Castle  shine  like  the  Pole-Star  that  guides  the  wanderer  on  his 
way. 

In  one  thing  only  has  Lady  Mallow  been  false  to  the  promise 
of  her  girlhood.  She  has  not  achieved  success  as  a poet.  The 
duchess  wonders  vaguely  at  this,  for  though  she  had  often 
found  it  difficult  to  keep  awake  during  the  rehearsal  of  her 
daughter’s  verses,  she  had  a fixed  belief  in  the  excellence  of 
those  efforts  of  genius.  The  secret  of  Lady  Mallow’s  silence 
rests  between  her  husband  and  herself;  and  it  is  just  possible, 
that  some  too  candid  avowal  of  Lord  Mallow’s  may  be  the  reason 
of  her  poetic  sterility.  It  is  one  thing  to  call  the  lady  of  one’s 
choice  a tenth  muse  before  marriage,  and  another  thing  to  foster 
a self-delusion  in  one’s  wife  which  can  hardly  fail  to  become  a 
discordant  element  in  domestic  life.  “ If  your  genius  had  de- 


^2 


riXEN. 


veloped,  and  yon  had  won  popularity  as  a poet,  I should  hcve 
lost  a perfect  wife,”  Lord  Mallow  told  Mabel,  when  he  wanted 
to  put  things  pleasantly.  “ Literature  has  lost  a star;  but  I have 
gained  the  noblest  and  sweetest  companion  Providence  ever  be- 
stowed upon  man.”  Lady  Mallow  has  not  degenerated  into 
feminine  humdrum.  She  assists  in  the  composition  of  her  hus- 
band’s political  pamphlets,  which  bristle  with  lines  from  Eurip- 
ides, and  noble  thoughts  from  the  German  poets.  She  writes 
a good  many  of  his  letters,  and  is  altogether  his  second  self. 

While  the  Irishman  and  his  wife  pursue  their  distinguished 
fjareer,  Eorie  and  Vixen  live  the  life  they  love,  in  the  t’orest 
where  they  were  born,  dispensing  happiness  within  a narrow 
circle,  but  dearly  loved  wheresoever  they  are  known;  and  the 
old  men  and  women  in  the  scattered  villages  round  about  the 
Abbey  House  rejoice  in  the  good  old  times  that  have  come 
again;  just  as  hearty,  pleasure-loving  England  was  glad  when 
the  stem  rule  of  the  Protector  and  his  crop-headed  saints  gave 
place  to  the  reign  of  the  MeiTy  King. 

From  afar  there  comes  news  of  Captain  Carmichael,  who  has 
married  a Jewish  lady  at  Frankfort,  only  daughter  and  heiress 
of  a well-known  money-lender.  The  bride  is  reported  ugly  and 
illiterate,  but  there  is  no  doubt  as  to  her  fortune.  The  captain 
has  bought  a villa  at  Monaco — a villa  in  the  midst  of  orange- 
groves,  the  abandoned  plaything  of  an  Australian  princess;  and 
he  has  hired  an  apartment  in  one  of  the  new  avenues,  just  out- 
side the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  where,  as  his  friends  anticipate,  he 
Will  live  in  grand  style,  and  receive  the  pleasantest  people  in 
Paris.  He,  too,  is  happy  after  his  kind,  and  has  won  the 
twenty-thousand-pound  prize  in  the  lottery  of  lift?;  but  it  is  alto- 
gether a different  kind  of  happiness  from  the  simple  and  un-  / 
alloyed  delight  of  Eorie  and  Vixen,  in  their  home  among  the 
beechen  woods,  whose  foliage  sheltered  them  when  they  were 
children. 


[the  end.] 


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The  best  selection  of  Classic  Fiction,  etc. , forming  a most  de- 
sirable line  of  two  hundred  12mos.  Printed  uniformly  in  large, 
clear  type,  on  fine  paper,  from  new  electrotype  plates,  and  very 
beautifully  bound  in  extra  cloth  and  gold,  extra  stamping  with 
ribbon  marker. 

Price  50  Cents  per  Volume. 


1 Abbot,  The.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

2 Adam  Bede.  By  G.  Eliot. 

3 .^sop’s  Fables. 

4 Airy  Fairy  Lilian.  By  The  Duchess. 

5 Alice  : a Sequel  to  Ernest  Maltravers.  By  Lytton. 

6 Alhambra.  By  Washington  Irving. 

7 Andersen’s  Fairy  Tales. 

8 An  April  Lady.  By  The  Duchess. 

9 An  Egyptian  Princess.  By  Georg  Ebers. 

10  An  Ocean  Tragedy.  By  W.  Clark  Bussell. 

11  Aurelian.  By  Wm.  Ware. 

12  Aurora  Floyd.  By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon. 

13  Arabian  Nights’  Entertainment. 

14  Arundel  Motto,  The.  By  Mary  Cecil  Hay. 

15  Barnaby  Budge.  By  Charles  Dickens. 

16  Baron  Munchausen. 

17  Beyond  Pardon.  By  Bertha  M.  Clay. 

JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 

1 


JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY’S  PUBLICATIONS. 


lEDUion  ot  12mo6— Continued* 


18  Birds  of  Prey.  By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon. 

19  Bondman,  The.  By  Hall  Caine. 

20  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

21  Bride  of  the  Nile.  By  Georg  Ebers. 

22  Cast  up  by  the  Sea.  By  Sir  Samuel  Baker. 

23  Catherine.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

24  Chaplet  of  Pearls.  By  Charlotte  M.  Yonge. 

25  Chandos.  By  Ouida. 

26  Charles  Auchester.  By  E.  Berger. 

27  Charlotte  Temple.  By  Mrs.  Eowson. 

28  Children  of  the  Abbey.  By  Kegina  Maria  Eoche. 

29  Child’s  History  of  England.  By  Charles  Dickens. 

30  Christmas  Stories.  By  Charles  Dickens. 

31  Coming  Eace.  By  Lord  Lytton. 

32  Conigsby.  By  Lord  Beaconsfield. 

33  Cousin  Pons.  By  Honore  de  Balzac. 

34  Crown  of  Wild  Olives.  By  John  Euskin. 

35  Daniel  Deronda.  By  George  Eliot. 

36  Deldee  ; or,  The  Iron  Hand.  By  Florence  Warden. 

37  Daughter  of  an  Empress,  The.  By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

38  David  Copperfield.  By  Charles  Dickens. 

39  Daughter  of  Heth.  By  William  Black. 

40  Deemster,  The.  By  Hall  Caine. 

41  Deerslayer.  By  J.  Fenimore  Cooper. 

42  Denis  Duval.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

43  Dick’s  Sweetheart.  By  The  Duchess. 

44  Dombey  and  Son.  By  Charles  Dickens. 

45  Donal  Grant.  By  George  Macdonald. 


JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 
2 


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j6Dition  of  l2mo6— ContinucD* 


46  Donovan.  By  Edna  Lyall. 

47  Don  Quixote.  By  Cervantes. 

48  Dora  Tliorne.  By  Bertha  M.  Clay. 

49  Dove  in  the  Eagle’s  Nest,  The.  By  Charlotte  M. 

Yonge. 

50  Duke’s  Secret,  The.  By  Bertha  M.  Clay. 

51  East  Lynne.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood. 

52  Effie  Ogilvie.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant. 

53  Egoist,  The.  By  George  Meredith. 

51  Ernest  Mai tra vers.  By  Lord  Lytton. 

55  Eugene  Aram.  By  Lord  Lytton. 

56  Fair  Women.  By  Mrs.  Forrester. 

57  Faith  and  Unfaith.  By  The  Duchess. 

58  False  Start,  A.  By  Hawley  Smart. 

59  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd.  By  Thomas  Hardy. 

60  Felix  Holt.  By  George  Eliot. 

61  File  No.  113.  By  Emile  Gaboriau. 

62  First  Violin,  The.  By  Jessie  Fothergill. 

63  For  Lilias.  By  Kosa  Nouchette  Carey. 

64  Foul  Play.  By  Charles  Keade. 

65  Flying  Dutchman.  By  W.  Clark  Bussell. 

66  Frederick  the  Great  and  His  Court.  By  Louisa 

Muhlbach. 

67  Gilded  Clique,  The.  By  Emile  Gaboriau. 

68  Gold  Elsie.  By  E.  Marlitt. 

69  Great  Expectations.  By  Charles  Dickens. 

70  Grimm’s  Fairy  Tales.  Illustrated.  By  the  Brothers 

Grimm. 


JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 
8 


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iBMtion  ot  12mo6— GontinueD^ 


71  Green  Mountain  Boys.  By  Judge  D.  P.  Thompson. 

72  Griffith  Gaunt.  By  Chas.  Keade. 

73  Guilderoy.  By  Ouida. 

74  Gulliver’s  Travels.  By  Dean  Swift. 

75  Guy  Mannering.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

76  Hardy  Norseman,  A.  By  Edna  Lyall. 

77  Harry  Lorrequer.  By  Charles  Lever. 

78  Handy  Andy.  By  Samuel  Lover. 

79  Henry  Esmond.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

80  House  on  the  Marsh.  By  Florence  Warden. 

81  Hypatia.  By  Charles  Kingsley. 

82  In  Peril  of  His  Life.  By  Emile  Gaboriau. 

83  In  the  Schillingscourt.  By  E.  Marlitt. 

84  Ivanhoe.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

85  Jane  Eyre.  By  Charlotte  Bronte. 

86  John  Halifax.  By  Miss  Mulock. 

87  June.  By  Mrs.  Forrester. 

88  Kenelm  Chillingly.  By  Lord  Lytton. 

89  Knickerbocker  History  of  New  York.  By  W.  Irving. 

90  Knight-Errant.  By  Edna  Lyall. 

91  Lady  Audley’s  Secret.  By  M.  E.  Braddon. 

92  Last  Days  of  Pompeii.  By  Lord  Lytton. 

93  Last  of  the  Mohicans.  By  Cooper. 

94  Lady  Castlemaine’s  Divorce.  By  Bertha  M.  Clay. 

95  Lerouge  Case.  By  Emile  Gaboriau. 

96  Lorna  Doone.  By  K.  D.  Blackmore. 

97  Lothair.  By  Lord  Beacon  sfield. 

98  Macleod  of  Dare.  By  William  Black. 

JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


4 


JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY’S  PUBLICATIONS. 


EDition  of  t2mo0— GontinueO* 


99  Madcap  Violet.  By  William  Black. 

100  Martin  Chuzzlewit.  By  Charles  Dickens. 

101  March  in  the  Banks,  A.  By  Jessie  Fothergill. 

102  Masterman  Beady.  By  Marryat. 

103  Master  Passion.  By  Florence  Marryat. 

104  Middlemarch.  By  George  Eliot. 

105  Mill  on  the  Floss.  By  George  Eliot. 

106  Molly  Bawn.  By  The  Duchess. 

107  Moonstone,  The.  By  W.  Collins. 

108  Monastery.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

109  Monsieur  Lecoq.  By  Emile  Gaboriau. 

110  Moths.  By  Ouida. 

111  Murders  in  the  Bue  Morgue.  By  Poe. 

112  My  Heart’s  Darling.  By  W.  Heimburg. 

113  My  Lord  and  My  Lady.  By  Mrs.  Forrester. 

114  Mystery  of  Orcival.  By  Gaboriau. 

115  Mysterious  Island,  The.  By  Jules  Verne. 

116  Nick  of  the  Woods.  By  B.  M.  Bird. 

117  Nicholas  Nickleby.  By  Charles  Dickens. 

118  No  Name.  By  Wilkie  Collins. 

119  Not  like  Other  Girls.  By  Bosa  N.  Carey. 

120  Old  Curiosity  Shop.  By  Charles  Dickens. 

121  Old  Mam’selle’s  Secret.  By  E.  Marlitt. 

122  Old  My ddle ton’s  Money.  By  M.  C.  Hay. 

123  Oliver  Twist.  By  Charles  Dickens. 

124  Only  the  Governess.  By  Bosa  Nouchette  Carey. 

125  Other  People’s  Money.  By  Gaboriau. 

126  Othmar,  By  Ouida. 


JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY’S  PUBLICATIONS. 


''©jtorD''  EDUton  of  12mo6— GontinueD* 


127  Our  Mutual  Friend.  By  Charles  Dickens. 

128  Owl  House,  The.  By  E.  Marlitt. 

129  Pair  of  Blue  Eyes,  A.  By  Thomas  Hardy. 

130  Pathfinder.  By  J.  Fenimore  Cooper. 

131  Paul  and  Virginia,  and  Easselas. 

132  Phantom  Ship,  The.  By  Mariyat. 

133  Pickwick  Papers.  By  Charles  Dickens. 

131  Pilgrim’s  Progress.  By  John  Bunyan. 

135  Pilot,  The.  By  J.  Fenimore  Cooper. 

136  Pioneer,  The.  By  J.  Fenimore  Cooper. 

137  Prairie,  The.  By  J.  Fenimore  Cooper. 

138  Prime  Minister,  The.  By  Anthony  Trollope. 

139  Princess  of  the  Moor,  The.  By  E.  Marlitt. 

140  Queen  Hortense.  By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

141  Eedgauntlet.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

142  Eed  Eover.  By  J.  Fenimore  Cooper. 

143  Eeproach  of  Annersley.  By  Maxwell  Gray. 

144  Ehoda  Fleming.  By  George  Meredith. 

145  Eobinson  Crusoe.  By  Daniel  Defoe. 

146  Eob  Eoy.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

147  Eomance  of  a Poor  Young  Man.  By  Feuillet. 

148  Eory  O’More.  By  Samuel  Lover. 

149  Eomola.  By  Geo.  Eliot. 

150  Scottish  Chiefs.  By  Jane  Porter. 

151  Search  for  Basil  Lyndhurst.  By  E.  N.  Carey. 

152  Second  Wife,  The.  By  E.  Marlitt. 

153  Sesame  and  Lilies.  By  John  Euskin. 

154  Set  in  Diamonds.  By  Bertha  M.  Clay. 

JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 
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JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY’S  PUBLICATIONS. 


iBDition  of  12mo9— ContmucD. 


155  Shandon  Bells.  By  William  Black. 

156  Shirley.  By  Charlotte  Bronte. 

157  Silence  of  Dean  Maitland.  By  Maxwell  Gray. 

158  Sketch  Book.  By  Washington  Irving. 

159  Spy,  The.  By  J.  Fenimore  Cooper. 

1 60  Squire's  Legacy.  By  Mary  Cecil  Hay. 

161  Antiquary,  The.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

162  Strange  Adventures  of  a Phaeton.  By  W.  Black. 

163  Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde.  By  Rob- 

ert Louis  Stevenson. 

164  Strange  Story,  A.  By  Lord  Lytton. 

165  Sunshine  and  Roses.  By  Bertha  M.  Clay. 

166  Swiss  Family  Robinson. 

167  Syrlin.  By  Ouida. 

168  Tale  of  Two  Cities.  By  Charles  Dickens. 

169  The  Young  Duke.  By  Beaconsfield. 

170  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw.  By  Jane  Porter. 

171  The  Countess  Eve.  By  J.  H.  Shorthouse. 

172  The  Fairy  of  the  Alps.  By  E.  Werner. 

173  Three  Guardsmen.  By  Alexandre  Dumas. 

174  Tom  Brown's  Schooldays.  By  Thomas  Hughes. 

175  Tom  Brown  at  Oxford.  By  Thomas  Hughes. 

176  Tom  Cringle's  Log.  By  Michael  Scott. 

177  Tour  of  the  World  in  80  Days.  By  Jules  Verne. 

178  Twenty  Years  After.  By  Alexandre  Dumas. 

179  20,000  Leagues  Under  the  Sea.  By  Jules  Verne, 

180  Twice  Told  Tales.  By  Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

181  Two  Years  Before  the  Mast.  By  R.  H.  Dana,  Jr. 


JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY’S  PUBLICATIONS. 


iB^ition  ot  12mo0— ContinueD* 


182  TJarda.  By  Georg  Ebers. 

183  Vanity  Fair.  By  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

184  Vendetta,  The.  By  Balzac. 

185  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  By  Oliver  Goldsmith. 

186  Vivian  Grey.  By  Lord  Beaconsfield. 

187  Vixen.  By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon. 

188  Waverley.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

189  We  Two.  By  Edna  Lyall. 

190  Wee  Wifie.  By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

191  What’s  Mine’s  Mine.  By  George  Macdonald. 

192  Whittier’s  Poems.  By  J.  G.  Whittier. 

193  Widow  Bedott  Papers.  Mrs.  Whitcher. 

194  Willy  Reilly.  By  William  Carleton. 

195  Woman’s  Face,  A.  By  Mrs.  Alexander. 

196  Woman  in  White,  The.  By  Wilkie  Collins. 

197  Woman’s  Love  Story,  A.  By  Bertha  M.  Clay. 

198  Wooing  O’t.  By  Mrs.  Alexander. 

199  Zanoni.  By  Lord  Lytton. 

200  Zenobia.  By  Wm.  Ware. 


JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY, 

142  to  150  Worth  Street, 

Corner  Mission  Place,’  NEW  YORK- 


8 


